


While Listening to Our Favourite Song

by a_colourful_stranger



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: 1950s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky and Natasha are married, Friends to Lovers, Howard Stark is alive, Implied/Referenced Underage Sex, Inaccurate Depictions of World War II, Infidelity, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Minor Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Minor Loki/Thor (Marvel), Minor Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Post-World War II, Steve and Peggy are married, Steve is pre-serum in flashbacks, World War II, and is a good dad, in present day sections
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-05-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 20:11:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 42,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13531662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_colourful_stranger/pseuds/a_colourful_stranger
Summary: They say you only truly love once; Steve disagrees. He is happily married and in love with his wife. He cannot even remember a time when he loved someone else—until that very someone is standing in front of him, 11 years after he should have died. His seemingly perfect life takes a turn, but it is his decision if it is for the better.Or: Bucky returns to Brooklyn, a decade after the Second World War, to a very married Steve Rogers.





	1. Chapter 1

_ 1956 _

The smell of musty furniture and fresh coffee are enough to keep him awake this early. The soft mutterings of the waitresses in the tiny diner he’s seated in, flitter about as they try to rouse the customers all barely awake. He, too, is half asleep. He never likes coming in this early, but sometimes it’s needed—if the client wants it this way, it happens this way.

In front of him sits his coffee, one cream and one sugar. He’s been slowly spinning the liquid around with a metal spoon, periodically clinking against the porcelain mug. He’d ordered his breakfast: two sunny-side eggs, a rasher of bacon and two sausages, and buttered toast, a while ago and he could hear the chefs behind the thin wall working away at it. They have no problem being as loud as they want when the food is ready. They yell out the orders and the waitresses flinch in surprise at the change in volume from the tables to the kitchens.

He hears the ding of the doorway and another tired soul walks in. He pays no attention to them, he fixes his gaze to the newspaper rack across the aisle from him. Part of him is tempted to stand to grab a copy of the mornings paper – it gives him something to talk about with the client – but he decides to sit on the faux leather booth is better than moving his tired legs.

“Here you go, Steve,” Angie, the usual waitress, chirps quietly as she places his breakfast on the table. “Do you want a refill?” She points to his coffee cup—it’s still full. He hasn’t touched it.

“No, I’m fine,” he says. Angie stares at him for a moment before sliding into the booth on the other side, placing the coffee pot on the edge of the table.

She tucks a stray strand falling from her pinned back hair before smiling, “I’m seeing Peggy later today. We’re going shopping.”

“I heard,” Steve picks up his mug and takes a sip. The warm liquid caresses his throat as it goes down. “Sometimes I think you see my wife more than I do.”

Angie giggles, “It’s because you’re so busy Mr. Big-Shot. Not everyone gets to be the Head of Advertising at Stark Industries.”

Steve shrugs, “I don’t know if it’s because I’m good at what I do, or Howard just takes pity on me for being the kid who slept on his couch for 10 years.”

Angie giggles again and reaches out, stealing a slice of bacon from his plate. “Peggy told me it was Tony that got you the job.” The door to the diner dings again and this time Steve looks up. It’s a man wearing a grey, shabby suit. Before Steve can stop himself, he thinks the man must be trying to get a job at somewhere far too professional for his current paycheck—or lack there of, with the tie the man is wearing. “I’ll be with you in a minute!” Angie says over her shoulder at the man. He nods slowly and goes to sit nearby Steve. “No matter who got you the job, I am still so happy for you and Pegs. Maybe with the new money coming in, there’ll be a baby on the way?” Steve chokes on his coffee and Angie has to cover her mouth to stop from laughing out loud.

“H-Has Peggy been talking about kids?” Steve asks once he can speak without hacking up a lung.

Angie starts to stand, “Oh, I can’t say,” and she winks. She picks up the pot of coffee and offers it to Steve once more and this time, he takes the top up. She kisses him on the head before turning to greet the other customer—“Ah!”

The coffee pot crashes to the linoleum floors and shatters.

“I am so sorry! I should have been looking where I was going!” Angie says in a flurry of words. She is already crouched down on the floor, picking up the scalding hot glass.

The person she bumped into is the man in the grey suit. He stands there bewildered. He kind of reminds Steve of a toddler; the way he stands there with his eyes blinking and mouth open in confusion.

Steve frowns at the sight. “Hey, aren’t you going to help her clean that up?”

The man’s eyes shift to him. He says nothing, and this makes Steve frown even more. He pushes himself up from the table and moves so he’s standing in front of the man. “Are you going to help her, or not?” Steve asks.

“Steve, it’s fine—”

“It’s not fine, he bumped into you – he should be the one cleaning up this mess,” the very same mess that is staining Steve’s leather shoes. “Listen, _buddy_ —”

“Steve Rogers?” the man asks quietly; his voice is barely over a whisper.

Steve would be lying to himself if he said he was used to people knowing his name. He was the man who was unofficially adopted by the Stark family at the age of 17; the entire state of New York knew who he was. It’s something he has had to come to terms with. The Stark’s saved his life, more than once; the least he could do is pretend to like being a household name.

He opens his mouth, about to go off on the man for changing the subject, when he meets the man’s eyes.

They’re the eyes of a ghost.

He is supposed to be dead. Steve had said goodbye, he’d cried, he had to be dragged away because he never would have gone willingly. Steve smells gunpowder and mud. He can taste dirt stained skin and feels a smile against his neck. He can hear bombs falling and never-ending screams. He sees the arm, bloody and mangled. His heart is pounding, and tears begin building, blurring his vision. He thinks he can hear Angie in the background calling his name, tapping on his shoulder but everything has zeroed in on the man in front of him.  _God_ , the man in front of him.

“Bucky?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence, period typical homophobia and inaccurate depictions of World War 2 ahead!
> 
> EDITS: 2018-9-07. Changes: Originally present tense, now past tense.

_ 1944 _

“Rogers!”

Steve dropped his pencil and looked up. There were at least twenty men around him, all doing their own things and he had no idea which one called his name. He stood, folding the drawing on his makeshift table and shoving it into his pocket. He weaved himself through the herd of men all trying to get their own work done. Some men are hunched over maps, whilst others drink murky coffee out of tin cups.

It was only his fifth day here in France. He enlisted four months ago, having three months of basic training before being sent off on a boat across the world. They threw a green uniform and a helmet at him, saying, “Good luck, Private.” And here he was: standing in the midst of a war, with a pencil drawn picture in his pocket and his heart pounding against his ribs.

A large hand grasped his shoulder and spun him around. “Do you have ears, Rogers?!”

“U-Uh, sorry, sir,” Steve gulped as his eyes found his unit captain. Captain Davison was a terrifying man. He was burly and red-faced. He had sounded angry since the moment Steve stepped foot in Europe.

“Smarten up, Private,” Captain Davison growled before shoving a pile of paper into Steve’s hands. “Deliver these amongst the unit. Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll find a letter from your sweetheart in there.”

Steve looked down at the mail, “I-I don’t have a sweetheart.”

Captain Davison laughed and eyed him. Steve felt small, smaller than usual. He knew his uniform was baggier on him that it was on others; he’s bony and short. It was a miracle he got into the army in the first place, but he was, and he deserved to be seen as a soldier just like everybody else.

“Of course you don’t,” Captain Davison smirked at him before walking away.

Steve looked down to the damp mail in his hands. He flipped through it, reading the names absently and frowned. He knew none of these people. He may be new, and may not know many names, but he knew this mail did not belong to his unit. He looked up, going to call after Captain Davison but he’d already vanished amongst the crowd of men. Steve’s gaze fell back to the mail, and he rubbed his thumb over the feminine scrawl on the first envelope. The name read _Clint Barton_ , and it was from a _Laura Barton_ , the man’s wife probably.

“Move it, kid,” a soldier bumped into him. “You’re in the way.”

“S-Sorry,” Steve flushed and stepped away from the table. The soldier, who looked to be a few years older than Steve, sat down and pulled out a piece of paper and an unsharpened pencil. “Um,” Steve gulped. “Captain Davison gave me mail to the wrong unit.”

The soldier shrugged, “Okay?”

“What should I do with it?” he asked, his fingers dug into the mail, somehow, he could hear the crinkling of it above the volume around him.

The soldier sighed, “You new?”

“Yes.”

“Listen, shit is always mixed up around here. When it gets mixed up, fix it. Go find the unit the mail belongs to, and deliver it to those men.” The soldier reached out and grabbed the mail, reading the names of each letter. “Barton? He is in the 108th, with Iron.”

Steve stared, “Iron?”

The soldier snorted. “Captain Stark—goes by Iron. They’re positioned up a mile from everyone else. They like being away from everyone, they say it keeps them focussed at the take at hand.” He handed the letters back to Steve with a smile. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Steven Rogers.”

“Rogers, eh?” the soldier continued smiling. “I’m Sam, Sam Wilson.”

“Nice to meet you,” Steve grinned. “Um,” Steve looked over his shoulder and pointed, “that way?”

“Yeah,” Sam nodded. Steve thanked him and started on his way. “Hey Rogers!” Steve turned back around. “Be careful out there!”

“You too,” Steve’s smile was sad now. This was the reality they were in. Some part of him realised he would probably never see Sam again. In a week or so, they were getting their instructions to go to separate parts of France to fight the Germans and if what the news said was true, Sam – or Steve himself – would be dead in the same week.

He tried to shake off the sinking pit in his stomach as he trudged through the mud. He made it out of the camp and saw the other encampment Sam was talking about. It was about a mile away, and he could see smoke rising up from a fire they’d built. Steve looked back to the mail as he walked, reading the names. Clint Barton, Peter Parker and James Rhodes. Sam had mentioned a Captain Stark, but there was no mail for him. The sinking pit in his stomach intensified.

He was never going to get mail.

Never.

He shoved the mail into his picket and kept his eyes forward. The 108th camp was nearing and the sound of hollering could be heard from a few meters away, followed by laughter. It was a rare sound. The camp was a strange collection of tarps and tables propped up as makeshift walls, with a few hastily made trenches near the entire camp. A man was sitting near the entrance, watching Steve. In the cold France climate, the man was wearing a sleeveless shirt. A cigarette hung from his mouth, with the ashes dangling at the tip.

“Um,” Steve grabbed the mail from his pocket, “are you in the 108th?” The soldier started, Steve stepped closer. “Do you know anyone in the 108th?” The soldier smirked around his cigarette and remained sitting. Steve felt anxiety prickling at his fingertips. He held up the mail and raised his voice. “I have letters for the 108th! Are you in the 108th?”

The soldier took his cigarette and shook the ash off, before putting it back in his mouth—still smirking and ignoring Steve.

Steve sucked in a breath and shouted, “Sir, are you in—”

A head popped out from behind one of the tables near the entrance, “Jesus, shut up, kid. We can all hear you.” The man came out and stood at the entrance. “Barton’s deaf. Can’t hear any of the shit you’ve been screeching at him.

“O-Oh,” Steve flushed with embarrassment.

“Come on,” the man motioned for Steve to come forward. He walked up to the camp’s entrance and shoved the mail in the man’s face. The man smirked, his eyebrows raised in amusement and read the mail. “Barton,” the man nudges the deaf soldier with his foot until they’re looking at each other. “The missus sent a letter.” The deaf man, Barton, beamed and took the letter without a word. Steve watched Barton rip open the envelope and sees tears fall down his cheeks. “It’s been a few weeks,” the other man said to Steve. He held out his hand, “The name is Stark.”

 _Captain Stark_.

“I-I’m Steve.”

Captain Stark chuckled, “Who has a grudge against you?”

“E-Excuse me?”

“No one sends kids over to us if they don’t have something against them,” Captain Stark then called out another name: “Rhodey!” and walked into the encampment, motioning for Steve to follow him. Rhodey, startled awake from where he was curled up in a corner. He reached out wordlessly for the letter and when Captain Stark handed it to him, Rhodey hugged it and fell back asleep. “We’re not the most likable folks.”

“Um…” Steve said quietly. Captain Stark glanced at him in confusion before calling out the third name, “Parker!”

A boy, probably not much older than Steve, hopped down from somewhere – Steve didn’t even know where – and grabbed the letter.

“Aunt May?”

“Probably,” Captain Stark ruffled Parker’s hair. “Tell her to send some food with her next letter.”

“Will do,” Parker left through the entrance, passing by Barton who was sobbing and clutching at a tiny picture. Steve gulped heavily.

Captain Stark sat down at a table, where another soldier was hunched over and asleep. The captain points at an empty chair and Steve sits. “So, who sent you?”

Steve eyed the sleeping soldier before answering. “Captain Davison, m-my captain.”

“Right,” Captain Stark nodded. “Dumbass Davison.” Steve blinked in shock. “Almost got my men killed a while back. Forgot to tell me there were Germans up ahead and I sent my men running blind. I almost killed him,” Captain Stark said. “I had to be held back from shoving my rifle up that man’s ass and firing.” Steve paled and shifted anxiously, Captain Stark noticed and laughed. “You just get here?” He nodded. “Welcome to war, kid. It only gets better from here.”

“Did anyone die?” Steve asked before he could stop himself.

“No, but they could have. My men are fast and smart, they knew what to do,” Captain Stark sighed. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal flask. He offered it to Steve and Steve quickly declined. “Don’t like whiskey?”

“I’m only s-sixteen.”

“Jesus Christ,” Captain Stark is suddenly angry. “Another baby?

“Another?” Steve subconsciously glanced over to the sleeping soldier again, who was now snoring quietly.

“I’ve had two 17-year-old’s in my unit. You’re all fucking babies,” Captain Stark leaned back in his chair and pointed to the sleeping soldier. “You and this kid shouldn’t even be somewhere like here.” Steve’s eyes look to the soldier— _kid_. His hair was mused sleepily and his arms were shielding him slightly, as if on habit. His snoring was progressively growing louder and Captain Stark chuckled. “He turned 18 in March. That’s when you all should have enlisted, instead of fucking lying on your forms.”

Steve felt shame wash over him and he wet his lips, “I guess.”

“How’d you get your parents to say yes to you coming here?” Captain Stark took a swig from his whiskey.

“U-Um, I didn’t,” Steve played with the cuff of his jacket. “My parents are dead.” Something flickered in Captain Stark’s eyes. “The priest are my church signed the papers, b-but he didn’t know what they were for. I lied.”

Captain Stark nodded as if in appreciation of the lie, and drank again. “I hate to say this, kid, but once this is all over—you probably won’t go back to that church. You’re probably never going to want to see that priest again.” Steve frowned. “It’s the truth. I’ll prove it—Winter here,” Captain Stark pointed to the sleeping kid,” was a Catholic boy through and through. He was here two weeks before I saw him throw his cross towards the Germans. War changes you faster than you know it.”

“Why are you telling me all of this?” Steve asked finally.

Captain Stark cleared his throat, “I am telling you shit that no one else is going to tell you. When you sign up – or forge your papers,” Captain Stark frowned, “they all say you’re doing your part in protecting your country. You’re a hero,” he laughs, “and maybe you will be – but not everyone coming here can be heroes. The probability of you becoming a hero, kid, is zero.”

“Why did you come here?” Steve asked.

The captain shrugged and drank, “Why not?” Without warning, Winter snored loudly and Captain Stark reached out, poking the boy’s head. “If you’re going to sleep, go to your cot.”

Winter shifted with a groan, “‘uck off.”

“Hey!” Captain Stark shouted and smacks him on the head. “Go to your cot before I drag your ass over there!”

Winter raised his head and glared at Captain Stark, “I was sleeping!” Steve could hear the unmistakable lilt of Brooklyn on the boy’s tongue and something else familiar he couldn’t place. 

“Does it look like I give a shit?” Captain Stark hissed. “We’ve got a guest and you’re giving a bad impression.”

Winter finally looked and Steve felt a strange emotion wash over him as sad, blue eyes shine at him. The boy’s face was red with sleep, but he smiled at Steve and held out his hand to shake.

“James Barnes,” the boy said and then pulls his hand back slightly. “Wait—I know you,” James said and it wasn’t a question. Steve gulped and shook his head, he couldn’t possibly know him but blurry memories of hot summer days and running through exploding fire hydrants hit Steve like a freight train. “Steve, right?” James sat up, wide awake. “You live with your mom, Sarah, in Brooklyn. Jesus, how is she? How are _you_?”

“I-I—”

“God, you’re taller now. You were so tiny. You used to keep newspaper in your shoes ‘cause you wanted to be a few inches higher.” James was beaming at him.

Captain Stark looked awkwardly between them and coughed, “I think you’re overwhelming him, Winter.” 

Slowly, Steve furrowed his brow and said, “Bucky?”

The name seemed so foreign in his mouth. It belonged somewhere in a language Steve hadn’t spoken since he was six-years-old. It all felt like a lifetime ago; like they had experienced their brief time together a century ago, rather than a decade. Sticky juice of frozen treats seeping through the cracks in his fingers and the playful sound of children’s laughter filled his ears. The heat waves, the frozen treats, the cool water against his sweaty skin—Bucky. His best friend.

Bucky’s smile grew, “Yeah, yeah. Holy shit, Stevie, what are you doing here?”

***

Steve was shaken awake by Sam – his only friend in the 106th – and told that they were getting ready to leave. His heart pounded anxiously in his chest, every nerve was on fire and he suspected Sam sensed this. “It’s going to be okay, Steve,” Sam said. “We get moved all the time, it’s no big thing. Maybe we’ll move farther away from the front line.”

 _Maybe_ —that didn’t soothe Steve’s worries.

Sometime later, while packing his bag, Steve felt a hand brush the small of his back and another grabs the drawing he’d been shoving away. He didn’t panic or get mag, he knew it was Bucky. Bucky moved his hand on his back to around his shoulders. “This drawing is really good, Steve.”

“Thanks,” he said quietly before taking it from him.

It had been a week since he found Bucky, and in that week, Bucky – or Winter, or Barnes, depending on who was calling his name – had been a constant presence. No matter where Steve looked, Bucky was always there. Sometimes Captain Stark was too, just to make sure Captain Davison didn’t get after Bucky for being away from his unit.

“So, we’re all moving,” Bucky said and sat down on Steve’s cot. “Where you heading?”

“I don’t know,” Steve replied. “You?”

“Towards some place that starts with a C,” Bucky shrugged. “Iron says it’s not good out there, but you know, it isn’t good anywhere.” Steve nodded and sat down next to him. They’re quiet together, amongst the chaos of men collecting their things. Steve looked to Bucky, who carried a strange expression on his face. He looked miles away. Steve didn’t know what to do. They barely knew each other. He didn’t know what to say to make him feel better—if he could say anything at all.

“Rogers!” Captain Davison’s voice carried angrily. Steve stood, as did Bucky, they watch as Captain Davison weaves himself through the tent. “Saying farewell to your sweetheart, Rogers?” Steve felt Bucky’s hand return to the small of his back. “The nice thing about leaving this camp is not seeing your fucking face, Barnes. Always in my camp distracting Rogers,.” Captain Davison came closer and Steve felt Bucky grip the back of his coat, holding himself back from saying something. “I should put you in your place right now while Stark is off sticking his cock somewhere—” a hand grabs at Captain Davison’s shoulder and wrenched him backwards.

“I’d appreciate if you would stop harassing my men,” Captain Stark growled. Over Captain Davison’s shoulder, the 108th’s captain nodded his head towards Bucky. “Come on, we’re leaving now.”

The grip Bucky had on Steve’s coat is vice-like. Bucky turned to him, “See you later, Steve.”

Bucky let go and passed by the two captains – who were staring each other down. Captain Stark raised his chin up at the other, before saying: “Take care of yourself, Rogers.” There was an emphasis on the ‘yourself’ in Stark’s sentence. Captain Davison noticed it, too, and shoves at Captain Stark’s shoulder making him laugh. “Goodbye, Davison.”

After he left, Captain Davison stormed off  and Steve heard Sam whistle. “You’re a brave man.”

“Why?” his voice betrayed him and trembled

“No one has ever survived Stark and Davison facing off.” Sam placed his hand on Steve’s head and wiggles it slightly. “Come on. I’ll help you with your cot.”

An hour later, they’re leaving the encampment. Steve glanced over his shoulder towards the 108th—they’re gone.

***

Cherbourg.

That’s where Bucky was going.

It was June 27th. Steve was startled awake by Sam – which was becoming a daily occurrence – and they went to where Captain Davison was standing on a truck. His hands were on his hips, and he waited until everyone had crowded around him. He announced that American troops had taken Cherbourg from the Germans, there are cheers throughout the crowd – Steve’s among them. Captain Davison lets the hollering calm down before saying that there were some fatalities, something that no longer shocked Steve. Among those killed, was a member of the 108th. Murmurs broke through the crowd and Steve felt a few eyes shift to him.

It could be Bucky.

The 106th was lucky enough to move farther from the Germans – as Sam had said. They were instructed to protect a town – the name of which Steve couldn’t pronounce. He didn’t have to fear waking up to the sound of German fire; they were safe here. Or, that was what Sam said to keep him from shaking in his boots. He and Sam were paired together, both in their duties and room assignment. When he left the crowd, Sam followed him all the way back to the building they were staying in. It wasn’t until they were both back inside, with the door shut, that Steve let himself cry. Sam was by his side immediately, holding him up while his body shook with tremors.

Steve couldn’t even understand why he was crying. He and Bucky had only spent a week together—most of it in silence, while Steve drew and Bucky watched. Sometimes they ate their rations together but that, too, was in silence. Still, tears streamed down his face and he let out a noise that frightened him.

“It’s okay, Steve,” Sam whispered. “You don’t know if it was Bucky. It could have been anyone. Hell, it could have been Iron.” That didn’t help. “There is no use crying if you don’t know,” Sam continued. “Bucky could be breathing.”

Steve sucked in a breath, “Why did Captain Davison do that?”

“Do what?”

“Tell us about the 108th? So many died but he singled out the 108th,” he hissed in anger. “Why did he do that?”

“I-I don’t know…”

Steve sat up and wiped his face. Snot smeared on his sleeve and it spread across his cheek. He hiccoughs, “He did it because of Bucky. He did it because he hates Captain Stark and he hates me.”

Sam rubbed his back, unable to supply Steve with a reply. “Bucky is okay,” he said instead.

Two weeks later, Captain Davison received word that it was Private Parker that died during the Cherbourg seizing. Steve recalled Captain Stark’s words about Parker and Bucky—how they were babies. It made his stomach ache. Captain Davison came up to Steve and Sam after he heard the news and said, “Too bad, isn’t it?” and walked away with a smirk. Sam swore under his breath and Steve clenched his fists at his side.

***

When Steve saw Bucky next, it was August. The 108th were travelling through their town – Fougeres, Sam taught him to say – while on their way south. He heard word from one of the other men off-duty, Rumlow, that the 108th have been occupying one of the other buildings in town.

Steve tried not to run over to the building Rumlow had pointed to, but he failed. He jogged over and pushed through the door, coming face to face with Barton.

“Hey,” Barton grinned tiredly, his face covered in a layer of dirt and grime. “You’re that kid from the 106th.”

“Is Bucky here?” he said without thinking. “I mean, Winter.”

“Winter? Yeah, he’s upstairs,” Barton barely finished his sentence before Steve was running up the carpeted stairs. Many of the doors were open, allowing Steve to look in. He saw Rhodes and Banner – the doctor in the unit – and he saw a few men he didn’t recognise from that week back in June.

He got to the end of the hall when Captain Stark walked out of the last room. Like Barton, he was covered in dirt but looks far more tired. He wasn’t wearing a shirt and Steve could see a large jagged cut in the center of his chest. When he saw Steve, a smile grew on his face, but Steve could see the tiredness behind it. He came towards Steve and clapped him on the shoulder.

“You good?” he asked.

“Y-Yeah,” Steve replied and as he does, Captain Stark looked him over.

He lifted Steve’s chin up with his fingers, and moved Steve’s head, checking him for injuries or bruises. Captain Stark forced Steve to spin in a circle as he checked the rest of his body. Steve felt like he was getting his physical back in Brooklyn all over again. When Captain Stark was satisfied with what he found, he hugged Steve tight and patted him on the back forcefully.

“It is good to see you, kid,” Captain Stark was full of emotion and it didn’t sit well with Steve. When they pull apart, Captain Stark nudged his head towards the room he’d just left. “He’s in there.”

Steve swallowed heavily and went in. The room was worn down and the bad, if you could call it that, was a metal frame with a thin mattress on top. Bucky was standing by the table in the center of the room, where his things were piled on top of. He was sliding his belt through the loops on his pants when he looked up. The job goes unfinished as he strode across the room and practically tackled Steve where he stood. Steve could feel Bucky’s breath against his neck and he was squeezing him so tight it hurt.

“God, Stevie, you’re alive,” Bucky breathed, it felt hot against his skin. Steve carefully put his arms around Bucky; the palm of his hands press against the muscles of Bucky’s back. The older boy tightened his grip and pulled Steve closer. He made a noise and Steve felt a wetness where Bucky’s face was pressed.

He swallowed. “I was worried about you, too. When they said the 108th lost someone, I-I—”

“It was Peter,” Bucky said. “He and me, w-we were in the forest taking a piss. Some fucking German saw us and shot him, i-in the head.” Bucky was shaking now. “I couldn’t do nothing but fall to my fucking knees a-and stare at ‘im. Iron killed the German, Ant and Banner got me out of there.”

“Bucky…” Steve whispered and Bucky sobbed. He hadn’t seen anyone die yet. He’d heard stories, many like Bucky’s, but because he knew Bucky and to some extent, Peter—it scared him.

Bucky pulled away and grabbed Steve’s face, each hand on either cheek. He bored his eyes into Steve’s, “Don’t fucking die. Do you hear me, Steven? Don’t you dare fucking die.”

He chuckled, though there was no humour behind Bucky’s words. He wanted to tell Bucky that his Ma used to call him Steven when he was in trouble. She used to say, “Steven, don’t you dare go getting mud on those pants.” The passion in Bucky’s voice reminded him of her. He decided to say nothing, Bucky was already sad, he didn’t want to make it worse.

Finally, Bucky let go and walked back over to the table. Steve stood there watching him thread the belt through and buckle it, before pulling on a marshy green t-shirt. He slipped out of his boots, revealing filthy woolen socks and he peeled them off before chucking them in a pile with the rest of his dirty clothes. Wordlessly, Bucky went to the bed and laid down. He covered his face with the crook of his elbow, then beckoned Steve to come closer with the other arm. Slowly, Steve made his way over and grabbed a chair near the table and pulled in beside Bucky’s bed.

When he sat, Bucky placed his free hand on Steve’s knee, gripping on the boney flesh. Steve fixed his eyes on the hand. It was dirty, small cuts were scattered along it and his pinky nail was black with blood.

“So fucking tired,” Bucky mumbled. “Been walking for the past couple weeks, trying to find this fucking town. Didn’t even know you were here; all Iron knew was that this town was being held by Allied troops and we’d be welcome to stay a few days.”

“I’m glad you found us,” Steve said. The hand on his knee tightened. “It’s nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Bucky smiled. “Been real worried about you. I don’t pray anymore, but every night I hope that you live another day.”

Steve’s bottom lip wobbled and he gulped down a ball of emotion. “You should sleep, Buck.” Bucky nodded. He watched Bucky for a while; the way his chest moved and how over time, his breathing slowed and his grip on Steve’s knee grew lax. Steve carefully placed his own hand over Bucky’s, his were cold compared to Bucky’s. He felt Bucky unconsciously squeeze Steve’s fingers before he pulled his arm away, rolling onto his side and letting out a groan of slumber.

A soft knock took Steve’s attention from his sleeping friend and Steve turned; Captain Stark was leaning against the frame. “Come here,” he whispered and Steve stood, leaving Bucky to sleep on his own. Stark led him to a room two doors down and ushered him in. Banner was sitting inside, alongside Rhodes and some other men Steve didn’t know. “Everyone, this is Private Steven Rogers, of the 106th.” Captain Stark announced to the room and the men gave out scattered greetings. “Have a seat, Steve.”

Steve nervously sat at the table they all sat around.

Captain Stark remained standing, his arms were crossed over his chest, “Steve, I have a question for you.”

He wet his lips, “Okay.”

“Do you like Davison?” Captain Stark asked him, and the question was not what Steve was expecting.

“Um, I don’t think I have a right to say, Sir,” Steve grabbed at his thighs anxiously.

“You have nothing to fear by answering the question. I won’t be going to Davison to tell him you think he’s an asshole,” Stark said to him. “You know that.” Steve hesitated to nod. “Whatever you say in this room, Steve, is confidential. These men sitting around you will not speak a word of what goes on in here, outside these four walls.” The men murmured in agreement.

“I-I don’t like him,” Steve said. “He doesn’t like me.”

“And why is that?” Captain Stark wondered. “Have you ever given him a reason to dislike you? Say, shitting in his rations or keeping a letter from him?”

“No!” Steve tried not to shout, quickly remembering who was sleeping nearby. “I haven’t done anything.”

Captain Stark looked to the other men around the room. He and Banner had a conversation without words before Banner spoke, “We have a proposition for you, Steve.”

“We want you to come to the 108th,” Captain Stark said, and Steve’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I’ve done the paperwork, had Banner and Rhodes look it over, and I just need to hand it in to Davison—but I need your consent.”

“He doesn’t, actually,” Banner interjected, “but he is quite adamant that he has it. I should also mention, that this must be kept quiet.”

Captain Stark rolled his eyes at the last part but pressed on. “I need you to say yes, Steve, and I will have you in here with us.” He came towards him and Steve got a closer look at the injury on his chest. It was fresh, there were still stitches scattered up along the jagged line, but not fresh enough that to touch it, it would split open. “Give me your consent, Rogers.”

“Why?” Steve blinked. “Why me?”

“Because I trust you,” Captain Stark said. “You’re observant, I see it in your eyes—we need that. You watch people and you see things before other people do. I noticed it that day in camp. I saw it in Winter’s room just now, the way you studied his hand.” Steve shifted awkwardly, how long had Captain Stark been watching? “You’re be a good partner for him.”

“It’s not a talent,” Steve murmured.

“Back in Brooklyn it’s not,” Captain Stark grabbed his shoulder, “but here, it’s a goddamn gift.”

“Winter is a scout,” said one of the men he didn’t know. “He and Spider were scouting together when they were shot at. We need somebody that watches as much as Spider did, but better. He should have seen that German from a mile away.”

“Say yes, Steve,” Captain Stark sounded desperate. “Davison is dangerous.”

Steve looked at the captain, then at Banner, and the other men around the room. He thought of Bucky, sleeping two rooms away and Sam, who is off-duty spending time writing to his Ma. He didn’t want to leave the safety and the security of Fougeres – but he realised, he didn’t know how long they’d be staying here. If he said no, what would he do in two weeks time when Captain Davison announced they were moving to the frontlines? The only person in the 106th who he could trust was Sam—everyone else were a bunch of nameless faces.

“Steve—”

A door slammed and there was a loud stomping until they were all standing, facing Captain Davison in the doorway to the room. Davison was red-faced, his eyes were daggers pointing at both Steve and Captain Stark. Captain Davison had never been this angry, at least that Steve had seen.

“Rogers, get back to your post,” Captain Davison growled through gritted teeth.

Steve looked to Captain Stark, who was staring heatedly at the other captain. He felt Banner behind him, brushing his hand by Steve’s elbow. He whispered lowly in Steve’s ear, “Say yes, Steve.” Then. “That is all Tony needs.”

Tony was Captain Stark, Steve assumed.

“Rogers!” Captain Davison all but screamed at him. “Get back to your post!” Steve did nothing of the sort. Captain Stark did the same, as did the other men in the room. Captain Davison clenched everything in his body, “Rogers, if you do not get your queer ass back to your _fucking_ post I will make you wish you’d never been born.”

Steve remained still.

This frustrated Captain Davison even more. He lunged at Steve, grabbing at his collar and pulling from Banner. The others did nothing. Steve’s heart was pounding in his chest, he was sure they could all hear it. 

“ _Rogers_!” Captain Davison said one last time before swinging at him, clocking him in the jaw and sending him flying onto the table. His back crashed against the cards they were playing before Captain Stark brought him in. His jaw ached and he could taste the irony flavour of blood.

“Yes,” Steve hissed through blood pooling inside of him and Captain Stark is on Davison.

“Private Steven Rogers is now under my command, Davison. If you do not get your fucking cocksucking ass out of this room in the next second, I will have you reprimanded for hitting one of my men,” Captain Stark is chest to chest with the man.

“You can’t do shit, Stark,” Captain Davison spat. “What you’re trying to do will never get past the higher ups, let alone Coulson.”

“Not anymore.” Captain Stark held out his hand and the man who had spoken up earlier, placed a pile of papers into his hands.

“What the fuck are these?” Captain Davison’s brow furrowed. “Unit transfer papers? I have never seen anything like this in the whole five years I’ve been here. Rogers is _mine_.”

“No, Rogers is mine. Now leave, Davison.”

Captain Davison glared over Captain Stark’s shoulder at Steve, who was already being looked at by Banner. “Get your shit out of my unit’s space by sundown,” he said before looking back to Captain Stark. “I’ll be talking to Coulson about this.”

“Go right ahead.” Captain Stark smiled easily. Captain Davison spat at his chest before storming out, stomping the same way he did when he came in, and slamming the door shut on his way out. Silence fell in the room and Stark turned to Steve. “Welcome to the 108th, kid.”

***

“Why do they call you Winter?” Steve asked to Bucky one night. They were in Bucky’s room in the rundown building the 108th had been staying in. Night had fallen in the French sky and the temperature was dropping despite it still being summer. He and Bucky were sitting side by side on the thin mattress; Bucky’s wool blanket was wrapped around them both. Bucky’s hand rested on Steve’s knee, his index finger rubbing circles mindlessly.

“I joined them in December of ’43,” Bucky told him. “During one of the first missions I went on, I had to scout at night and I was apparently too quiet coming back, the unit almost shot me thinking I was a German. Iron said I was as deadly as winter; you never see me coming and I do, it’s too late. I didn’t think it was going to stick, but it’s almost September now and they don’t even call me James… so I guess it stuck.”

“I like it,” Steve said. “What is everyone else’s name? I haven’t heard them.”

“Stark is Iron, got it ‘cause he’s tough like iron—but I think part of it is because his dad is the CEO of Stark Industries back in Manhattan, which supplies iron and other metals to the military. Banner doesn’t have one, he had one before I came but it made him angry, so they don’t say it anymore. Lang is Ant, ‘cause he can fit into tiny places. Barton is Hawkeye because he’s our sniper, and Rhodes is War Machine; he used to pilot a tank but now he’s Stark’s first-hand man. Strange doesn’t have a nickname either, but Stark pretends his nickname _is_ Strange, so it works.” Bucky shivered slightly and moved in closer. “And you call me Bucky, because you couldn’t pronounce Buchanan and refused to call me James.”

“I was six,” Steve laughed.

“I know,” Bucky bumped his shoulder against Steve’s. “I like it,” he repeated Steve’s earlier words. The wind slammed against the flimsy window, it was so powerful he flinches. It didn’t frighten Bucky. “It’s just the wind, Stevie,” he whispered. “The Germans are a world away.” Steve was fixed on the window. Bucky’s breath was against his ear. “You don’t need to be afraid.”

“Do you remember when we were kids?” Steve asked randomly. “The night when it was really hot, and your Ma let you sleep over at my house.”

Bucky chuckled, “Yeah, I do. Good old Sarah Rogers bought us both popsicles and we made such a mess. She shoved us in the bath so fast—pretty sure we both stained our Sunday shirts.”

“That night it was so hot,” Steve continued to stare at the window. “We were both in our underwear, staring at the ceiling j-just covered in sweat. It felt like the night was never going to end.”

“But it did,” Bucky said. “The next morning, your Ma made us bacon and eggs, we went to the park and I went home.”

“Do you think the war will end?” Steve felt miles away.

“Stevie.”

“It doesn’t feel like it will. When it started, I thought there is no way this is going to last more than a month. But now it’s still happening, and I’m here, a-and I don’t think it’s going to end.” The wind hit the window and Steve jumped, his body jolting in terror. His chest felt like it was going to explode.

“Steve.”

He hadn’t heard a gun-fire in battle, or a bomb crash to the ground, but the wind—maybe he was dying.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky grabbed at him, forcing him to face him. “The war will end; it will. It feels longer than it is, because we’re in it but it will end. Just like that night in Brooklyn—it will end.”

Steve crumbled and broke down. The memory of his mother, the idea of seeing what Bucky had seen, Captain Davison—the weight was crushing him. But Bucky was there; he eases Steve down onto the mattress and laid down next to him. He covered them both with the quilt and his thin blanket, then placed his hand over Steve’s chest. Bucky whispered in his ear, reaffirmations that everything was going to be fine, that the war would end, and they’d get popsicles in Brooklyn the moment they get back into the States.

A kiss was pressed to Steve’s hair and Bucky placed his head down beside Steve’s on the small pillow. “We’re going to be okay, Steve.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter--let me know what you think! The next chapter is in the 50s, after the war. The update will be soon!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare for angst-y Bucky and Steve times ahead!

_ 1956 _

His key slides easily into the lock and before he turns it, he sucks in a deep breath. Beyond this door, his life changes. Beyond this door, is his wife and the memories they have built together for the past ten years. Slowly, he twists the key in the lock and turns the knob, nudging the door open with the toe of his shoe.

The house is older, the hinges creak and the floorboards shift underneath the weight of his body. He dumps his keys in the makeshift key bowl beside the entrance and he shut the door behind him. Smells of baked bread and fruit fill his nose almost instantly; he smiles. He tries to be as silent as possible, he doesn’t want to disturb the first peaceful moment this house has seen in two weeks.

 With each step, he tiptoes past the dining room and he peers through the archway into the kitchen. It is better than their last place. The appliances are newer and there have been less fires when using the oven. It only took a sizable amount of money, but they’ve finally gotten here—

“James?”

He sighs, “You caught me.”

Natasha frowns at him. She is standing near the sink with one arm tucked under a mixing bowl and the other grasping a whisk. “Was I not supposed to notice you lurking in the doorway?” 

Bucky shrugs. She rolls her eyes and turns her back to him, continuing her whisking. He eyes her for a moment; her hair is put together messily and there are flour handprints on almost every inch of her dress. The problem of this would probably be solved if she wore an apron. Bucky almost wants to ask why she isn’t wearing one, but he knows the answer will be ‘haven’t unpacked it yet’. Instead, he comes up behind her and places his hand on the small of her back, before looking over her shoulder to see inside the mixing bowl.

“It is going to be a chocolate cake,” she says before he can ask. “For the twins.” Bucky nods and places his chin on her shoulder. “I can make you something to eat if you want.”

“No, I’m fine,” he says, then swallows heavily – his body finally catching up with the thoughts in his head. “I ate already.”

Natasha stops whisking, “You did? Where?”

He moves so that he is sitting on top of the kitchen counter and he ignores Natasha’s following glare. “This little diner in downtown. It was nice,” he gulps. “Quaint.”

“You are supposed to be looking for jobs,” she whisks angrily. “We paid so much for that suit, James. I could have gotten the twins something _nice_ for their birthday to make up for the bullshit we have put them through.” She is whisking so hard, drops of chocolate are splattering against the edges of the bowl – a few land on the counter nearby. What happens next is something Bucky is used to by now. Russian spills from Natasha’s mouth so fast, he struggles to catch what she is saying. Most of it is swearing, directed at him and at the entire state of New York.

“Nat, listen,” he interjects. Her eyes are like daggers. “The jobs will still be there tomorrow—”

“Really? Because when I got _my_ job, the boss said that if I had come a day later, the position wouldn’t even exist,” she spits. Bucky purses his lips and decides not to point out that her job is at some seedy bar in the bad part of the city, and that the only reason the job was still available was because no one wanted to go to make the trip there. “Things are different here in America than they are in Russia,” Natasha continues. “You can’t just, ignore your problems here.”

“Natasha,” he tries again but she points the whisk angrily in his face.

“No. We need money, James,” she says. “We talked about this—”

“Natasha!” he shouts but there is no anger behind it, in fact he is smiling. “I found him.”

She deadpans, “Him? Who is ‘him’?”

Bucky sucks in a breath, “I found him, Nat.”

Natasha slams the mixing bowl onto the counter, the cake batter splashes out and plops onto the white surface. “What are you talking about, James?!”

He doesn’t reply and stares at her expectantly. She returns the stare but with a seething anger beneath those cold blue eyes. He waits patiently. He can see the calculations going on inside of her head. Natasha has always been smart, since the moment he met her, she knew far more about the world than he did. He can remember the day she snuck him into the youth hostel she was staying in; how she managed to trick the Nun in charge to let him stay. There is no one else like her.

It takes another moment before Natasha’s widen and her hands come up to cover her mouth. “You found him,” she whispers. “You _found_ him.”

“I found him,” he lets out a nervous laugh. Her face reads a confusion she doesn’t voice. “In the diner,” he continues. “I have passed by it every day for the past week. Today I went in, and I-I saw him. I felt like I couldn’t move or do anything, because he was there. He is alive, and he is breathing, and he looks happy,” his voice breaks slightly. “I couldn’t stop myself. I had to go see him.”

Natasha nods slowly, “What did he do?”

Steve looked terrified. The moment Bucky said his name, Steve went through many different emotions. He was lost at first, Bucky thinks. His eyes wandered helplessly over Bucky; taking in the length of his hair, the sharpness of his jaw, the lack of a left arm. Bucky, too, was lost. Steve was so much taller than he remembered. His body had filled out in a way that his 16-year-old body had yet to do. 

“He called me Bucky,” he tells Natasha. “It felt like someone was speaking to me in another language. I haven’t been called Bucky since 1945.” And he can still remember the last time. Covered in blood with tears streaming down his cheeks, Steve whispered out his name so sweet it was like a prayer. Boney fingers grabbed at his face, shaking him to stay awake and stay alive until help came.

“You said you ate,” Natasha breaks him out of his reverie. “You ate together?”

“Yeah,” Bucky nods. “He told me to sit while he helped the waitress – Angie, I think – clean up the broken coffee pot. I could see his hands shaking, he was in shock. When he was finished, he sat down across the booth from me and stared at his coffee cup for a while.”

The waitress kept looking back over at them, Bucky had noticed. She didn’t know who he was, and was no doubt alarmed at how his presence had thrown Steve off. At one point, Bucky saw her on the phone—he feared she was calling the police on him. But his worries faded, when Steve finally spoke. He said, “Where have you been?”

“I told him Russia,” Bucky recounts to Nat. “I was found without dog tags, wearing a Russian uniform, so they took me back with them.” He doesn’t tell Steve that the Russians found him an hour after their unit had left Bucky in the debilitated farmhouse. He’d lost so much blood, he couldn’t form any coherent words—when he woke up in the makeshift army hospital, he thought he had died. “Steve looked like he was going to cry.” Natasha rubs his left shoulder gently. “I didn’t really know what else to say. He looked so crushed, Nat.”

“He has thought you were dead for the past eleven years, James,” her voice is soft. “What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” he says and it’s the truth. He didn’t expect to see Steve so soon after returning to New York. Part of him considered the idea that he wouldn’t Steve see at all. He thought that perhaps they were destined to never cross paths again. Until they did.

Natasha lets her hand fall from his shoulder and she goes back to the mixing bowl. Bucky follows the movement, she finishes whisking the batter and she lifts it over to the cake pan. She smooths the batter down with a rubber spatula, spreading it evenly throughout.

“What else did you both talk about?” she asks.

“He works for Stark,” Bucky says. “I’m not surprised. Stark always had a soft spot for Steve, to the point that he went against Steve’s captain to put him in the 108th with us. I-I didn’t even know Stark did it, I woke up one night and Steve was sporting a bad bruise and was in our unit.” He sighs. “Steve is the Head of Creative, for the advertising section of the company. He gets paid really well.”

“He told you that?” Natasha places the spatula down and then lifts the pan, before slamming it back down on the countertop.

“No,” he smirks. “I could tell from the suit he was wearing and the watch on his wrist. A Rolex, I think. Besides, from what I remember, Stark avoided talking about his income back in the war, but I overheard him and Banner talking about stuff sometimes. Banner worked for Stark’s dad, they talked about really advanced stuff—weapons that the Germans would have killed for. I can only imagine the money they were making.”

Natasha passes him and goes to the oven to the right of him. As she slides it in, something settles uneasily in Bucky’s stomach. He sees the glint of her wedding ring in the sunlight easing into the tiny kitchen. He wets his lips.

“He’s married.”

Natasha drops the cake pan unceremoniously onto the oven rack. He sees her try to shake off her mistake, then close the oven door slowly. It clicks shut loudly. She turns her head over her shoulder, “How long?”

“A year. Her name is Peggy Carter. They met at Stark Industries; she works in advertising too, but not creative.” He swallows heavily. “I told him about you. He seemed happy for me. For us.”

Natasha goes to say something, but the front door opens, and Bucky hears the twin’s voices spilling in. Bucky rubs his jaw slowly, feeling emotion building inside. He flickers his eyes to Natasha’s, and she smiles as if it makes anything better.

Wanda comes in first, she drops her saddlebag on the small table and Russian flows easily between herself and Natasha. Bucky understands most of it, after his eleven years in Russia, but he can’t speak it as well. Pietro comes in a moment later, he greets Bucky and goes to the fridge before being smacked on the arm by Natasha. Bucky hears her say, “You are not even going to say hello before you eat?”

The twins are twenty. They aren’t Natasha’s younger siblings, but they might as well be. Their parents died during a bomb blast in early ‘44—the twins survived but their parents were killed instantly. The pair were shipped off to the same hostel Natasha was taken to and were almost immediately taken in by her. She was fifteen at the time they arrived. When she snuck Bucky in, one year had passed between the twin’s arrival and his.

He’d always dreamt of having a family; marrying the person he loves and having two children, a boy and a girl. He has that. Natasha is his wife, and they’d raised the twins together. It is everything he has ever wanted. Except it isn’t. Steve is married, too. It is far more genuine than Bucky’s could ever be. If Steve and Peggy have kids— _when_ they have kids, it will be what Steve dreamt of when they were teenagers in the middle of a world war. Steve will be happy.

But is Steve’s happiness enough for him? Will it ever be enough?

The twins and Natasha laugh together, and Bucky feels something prickling in the corner of his eyes. He clears his throat, “I’m going to shower.”

Natasha comes to him and pets the side of his face, “Okay.”

He leaves the kitchen and heads down the narrow hall, then inside of the first door on the right. The laughter and chatter fades with the shut of the door. His back presses against it and slides down, tears already streaming down his face. Bucky’s chest heaves as he sobs silently, he pulls his knees close and shoves his face between the two. He bites the loose fabric of his slacks; a scream threatens to burst from his throat.

Steve hugged him in the diner, with the promise of seeing each other again. He gave Bucky his card. It had his phone number on it, along with many credentials describing his role at Stark Industries. The paper felt strange in Bucky’s hand. He held Steve’s entire life after the war. Steve patted his arm and told him he had to leave but to call him, his secretary would make arrangements. Then, Steve hugged him again, completely unaware to the waitress still watching them suspiciously. Bucky almost missed Steve’s whisper over the increasingly loud diner.

“I missed you, Buck.”

***

“Rough night?”

Tony’s voice makes him jerk awake, his eyes blink rapidly to adjust to the light in the room. He raises his head up from the throw pillow to see Tony standing across the office from him, sitting on his desk eating an apple.

“What time is it?” he mumbles sleepily.

“Almost three,” Tony says after a bite. “I came around at ten to talk but your girl said you were resting. She said the same thing at noon. At two-thirty, I used my key and came in.”

“You have a key to my office?” Steve sits up and stretches his arms over his head. He groans in pleasure when his joints pop. “Why do you have a key to my office?”

“Why not?” Tony shrugs. “You know you have a house, right? With a very nice bed, I might add. It’s probably a lot comfier than your office couch.” Steve doesn’t reply. Instead he stands and walks over to his desk to pull out an aspirin. He dry swallows it, ignoring Tony’s grimace at the sight. After another bite the older man asks, “Everything good with Pegs?”

“Things are perfect with Peggy,” Steve tells him. “Peggy is perfect.”

“Okay,” Tony chews loudly. “Then why are you here?”

Steve closes his eyes. He sees Bucky standing in front of him in the diner, his hair long and slicked back, the hint of stubble growing, the missing arm— _alive_. Fuck, Bucky is alive. Steve’s eyes burst open as his knees buckle, and he grabs at his chair quickly, before he collapses onto it. He hasn’t hyperventilated like this since the late 40s, when the dreams of the war were still fresh in his mind and the image of Bucky dying plagued his every waking thought. Tony is at his side, like he was back then, trying to get him through it.

His apple forgotten, Tony is kneeling by Steve’s chair. He is rubbing Steve’s back with one hand and pressing the other against his chest where Steve’s heart is pounding rapidly. When the echoes of gunshots and grenades exploding wane, he can hear Tony trying to get through to him.  

“Hey, buddy,” Tony sounds miles away. “What’s going on? What set you off?”

“Bucky,” Steve breathes through gritted teeth.

“Bucky?” Tony repeats. “What about him?”

“H-He’s alive,” Steve looks down at Tony. Tony’s concerned, he can tell by the expression he wears. “Bucky is alive.”

“Steve, he’s not,” Tony smiles calmingly. “He died in Germany. He was shot in the arm, there was no saving it or him. We had to leave him behind and he died.”

“No!” Steve is shivering like he is in Antarctica. “I saw him,” Tony’s brow furrows, “in the L&L. I was talking to Peggy’s friend and h-he came up to us. It was _him_ , Tony.”

Tony’s hand stops its movements and he stands. He steps back a bit, “How do you know it’s him?”

“It is him. He looks the exact same, save the left arm,” Steve leans his elbows against the top of his desk. “He told me that the Russians found him and amputated his arm in one of their hospitals. They mistook him for one of theirs and sent him to Russia, and that is where he has been for the past eleven years.”

“Fuck,” Tony takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes. “Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

Tony goes across the room to the alcohol cart. He pours himself some whiskey – knowing Steve doesn’t drink at work – and downs it quickly, before pouring another. “What are you going to do?”

“What?” Steve frowns.

“ _What_ are you going to do?” Tony repeats. This time, Steve understands. A cold sweat breaks out over his body and he feels sick to his stomach at the thought. The gold band on his ring finger burns.

“He’s married.” Steve says and Tony chokes on his third drink. “And so am I. Him being back changes nothing.”

“Does it?” Tony raises his eyebrow. “You seem pretty worked up about it.”

“Go away, Tony.”

The bastard laughs, “I’m not trying to tease you. I am genuinely asking you. If him being here changes nothing, then why did you just have a panic attack in front of me? I am guessing you had one earlier too, and that is why you have been sleeping on your shitty couch instead of going home like any other person would.”

“I thought he was dead!” Steve shouts.

“So did I!” Tony shouts even louder. “James wasn’t just your friend, Steve. He was my friend. He was Bruce’s friend. He was everyone’s friend! Just because you were in love with him, doesn’t change that we fucking lost him, too!”

Steve charges across the room, he grabs Tony’s collar and throws him up against the wall separating them from his secretary. “Keep your mouth shut,” he snarls. “If somebody heard you—”

“Nobody heard me—”

“ _If_ somebody heard you,” Steve continues. “I could be arrested. They could send me to prison.” Tony jaw hardens. Steve keeps his voice low, “Bucky being alive changes _nothing_. I worked hard to get to where I am, in my marriage, in the company—I am not going to throw it away f-for something that I may or may not have felt when I was sixteen.”

Tony softens, “Does Peggy know about him?”

“No.”

“I will keep my mouth shut, then,” Tony pushes on Steve’s chest, making Steve release the grip on his shirt. Tony smooths down the rustled fabric then pats Steve on the shoulder. “I am sorry.”

Tony is the only person in the world, other than Bucky, that knows of his… past. It is a part of him he tries to forget, not because he is ashamed or afraid of what he is or used to be but because he cannot afford to mess things up. The Stark’s so graciously let him into their home after the war. He was a small, emotionally distraught teen; anyone else would have thrown him to the curb. Tony, his former captain in the 108th unit, became his surrogate older brother. Tony taught him the ropes of adulthood and life outside of sadness. Tony’s father, Howard, gave him a job at his company and treated him like Steve were his own son. Steve promised himself he would never ruin or give the Stark’s a reason to regret their decision to accept him.

It still baffles him that Tony suggested taking him in to his parents after putting two and two together in Germany. The moment Tony approached him about it, with his voice quiet and eyes searching for any eavesdroppers, Steve thought he was going to be reported and sent back to America for being a pervert. Instead, Tony told him that there was nothing wrong with him and that he needed to be careful from that point on. If Tony knew, then someone else was bound to figure it out too. If they did, Steve never found out.

Tony took care of him after Bucky died.

Steve nods, “Just… It’s fine.”

The older man adjusts his glasses, “Are you going to see him again?” He walks back over to his desk, picks up Tony’s forgotten apple and chucks it to him. Tony bites into it, “Do you want to?”

“I don’t know,” Steve sits up on the edge of the desk. “I missed him. Seeing him there, alive and breathing… God, I can’t describe what it made me feel. I-I gave him my card and told him to call so that my girl could make plans.”

“So you’re going to see him,” Tony finishes the apple and throws it in the garbage. It lands with a heavy ‘thump’.

“It depends if he calls.”

A buzz takes his attention away from Tony. _“Mr. Rogers, there is a call for you from Mrs. Stark.”_

Steve presses the intercom button, “You’re going to have to be more specific.”

Tony snorts.

" _Mrs. Maria Stark.”_

“Mom?” Tony frowns. “Why is she calling you and not me?”

“She likes me better,” Steve chuckles as he picks up the phone. “Maria! How are you?” as he talks, Tony comes up beside him and presses his ear as close as he can to the receiver.

 _“Steven!_ ” Maria begins. _“I am calling to remind you of the dinner we’ve tonight at the house.”_

“Yes, of course,” Steve curses himself for forgetting. “Peggy and I will be there.”

" _Good. It has been so long since I’ve had all of my boys together in one room_ ,” her boys being Steve, Tony and Howard – sometimes Bruce, too. _“One of you is always off doing something else. I think you all take turns avoiding me. Tony hasn’t been returning my calls and he is somehow always somewhere else when I visit you all at work.”_

"You know that isn’t true, Maria,” Steve says just as Tony snickers. “Actually, I have Tony here and he wants to talk to you—”

“You son of a bitch,” Tony hisses under his breath as Steve hands him the phone. “Hello Mother. Yes, Pepper and I will be there tonight. We’re leaving right after work. Yup. Of course.” Tony glares at him. “I’ll behave so long as Dad does. Yeah. Love you, too. Goodbye,” he hangs up the phone and proceeds to punch Steve’s arm. “You are an asshole, Steve Rogers.”

Steve only smiles.

There is a knock on the door and Tony opens it, revealing Steve’s secretary. She’s new, he doesn’t even know her name—he tries to learn everyone’s name. His mother had told him when he was young, when she was still working at the hospital, that every person matters – no matter what their job.

“Mr. Rogers,” she says, “you have your meeting with Accounts.”

“Right,” Steve turns to Tony. “Do I look like I just slept on a couch for five hours?”

“You look like an ass.”

The secretary blushes in embarrassment.

“As always Tony, you are as useful as a thumb tac in a balloon factory.”

Tony winks at him and the secretary blushes again. Before Steve can step out of the office, Tony grabs his arm, “He will call you. If he is the same man, he will call you.”

***

Their backyard is sizable. The grass is in great condition, the previous owners were an old couple who had nothing better to do than take care of the yard and lush flower garden. There is a tire swing hung from the large tree towards the back—they told him and Nat that it was put up for their grandchildren.

He used to have one just like that when he was a kid, back when his father had his job at the mechanics shop. His parents always fought, and after a particularly bad night spent listening to his mother crying and his father throwing back drink after drink, Bucky woke to a tire hanging from the tree in the front yard. Rebecca was three at the time, and he’d sit her up on the tire and push her around. Her giggles would drown out the arguing going on inside.

Steve liked the swing, too. When Sarah would let him come over, he and Steve would sit side by side on it, using their legs to move it around. Sometimes he would spin Steve around so fast, Steve couldn’t walk straight for ten minutes.  

It was the one thing Bucky missed about that house when they moved out of Brooklyn, he had no other ties to it.

His toes dig into the grass and pushes himself gently, hearing the tree branch it is tied to groan with each movement he makes. The sky is darkened with night and the air is cool, it bites at Bucky’s bare skin. He is only wearing a nightshirt and boxers. The nightmares are getting bad again. He cannot sleep a single night without feeling the phantom pain of a bullet ripping through the flesh of his arm, through the bone, and shredding his muscle into pieces. He wakes screaming silently into his and Natasha’s room, before quickly looking to see if he woke her. Tonight, he didn’t. She was sleeping on the other side of the bed, her arm tucked under her pillow and her back facing him. He was thankful and was able to sneak out of the room without disturbing her. The twins didn’t wake either, what with Pietro’s room right next to his and Natasha’s, and Wanda’s just down the hall.

Maybe his footsteps are still as quiet as they were in the war. They were what earned him his nickname. No one ever saw him coming and when they did, it was too late—just like winter.

“You shouldn’t be out here this late,” Natasha’s voice cuts through the silence. He looks at her, maybe she should be called Winter too. She is wearing her bathrobe, it’s pulled tight around her body.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he replies. “Why are you up?”

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” she comes closer and steps onto the grass. “So, I came looking. I thought you’d be here.” Natasha sits down on the tire beside him; her arm slides up his back and her lips press to the skin of his shoulder. “Nightmares?”

“Yeah,” he swallows hard. “The same thing. Getting shot, dying, Steve.” She runs her fingers through his hair wordlessly, waiting for him to say more. “I feel better in the cold. It wakes me up.”

In Russia, they had a cramped apartment with a small balcony hanging out over Moscow. Bucky would spend most nights sitting out, looking over the city and longing for New York. There were times when he was so ill from not wearing the proper clothing in the frigid weather, that he was bedridden for weeks.

“You should be wearing more,” Natasha clicks her tongue. “You’re going to get sick.”

“It’s August,” Bucky reminds her. “It’s not that cold.”

“You’ve goose bumps all over your body,” she points out. “Come back inside.”

“I don’t want to.”

“James—”

 “Natasha,” he mocks. “I just need to not be inside, w-where the memories come back and nothing I do makes them go away. E-Except, being outside.”

“Do you want me to go back inside?” she asks. Before he can answer she continues, “I don’t like leaving you alone with your thoughts. I am here for you, James. Despite the circumstances, I am your wife and I feel that I should be as supportive as I can.”

He bites his lip and shifts his gaze up to the stars. Natasha is his best friend. Part of him hates that she is stuck with him, a man who can never love her the way a man should, but she doesn’t complain. It was her idea to marry him in the first place. There was no ceremony or reception; only an office and a government worker signing the papers. When they got back to the apartment, Natasha told the twins and they began planning their move to the States. It was unorthodox – their marriage. Bucky had never kissed Natasha, other than on her cheek or the top of her head. They’d never had sex or done anything a normal married couple does. They share a bed, just to avoid confusion if someone did ask—which no one has ever done. They see him and Nat, with the twins, and they see a variation of the nuclear family.

But they are wrong. They are dysfunctional at best, what with Bucky being a queer and loving the same man he has loved since he was 17. Things are messy, and he is making things worse.

“I don’t think I am going to call him,” Bucky says quietly. “I feel like I have disturbed too much already.”

“What makes you say that?” Natasha asks.

“I keep thinking, that Steve has this life that he’s made for himself and me coming in changes things.” Bucky sucks in a breath, “He is married to a woman who loves him, and he loves her.”

“You don’t know the details of their situation,” she reminds him. “Things are never as perfect as they seem.”

Bucky purses his lips, “I don’t know what I should do. What if he doesn’t want to see me? What if he doesn’t want me to call?”

A dog barks in the distance and sirens echo close by.

“Stop thinking about what you think Steve wants you to do,” Natasha says with a hint of sternness. “What do _you_ want to do?”

 “I want to see him,” Bucky says almost instantly. “I need to see him.”

“Okay,” she says this slowly and he prepares for what she’ll say next. “Then that is what you should do. Reach out to him and see him— _but_ you need to know that what you want, may not be what he wants. You shared a past together and you shouldn’t forget it. However, if he wants to forget parts of it… You can’t be upset.” Her hand falls from his side and she stands, extending her hand to him. “I love you, James. I don’t want to see you hurt over something you cannot control.” Tears build. Bucky takes her hand. “Let’s go back to bed.”

Natasha leads him back into the house, through the kitchen and down the hall. She tucks him beneath the blankets and crawls in beside him. She stretches one arm across his chest and tucks the other behind his head. He reaches up with his hand and entwines his fingers with hers as the dam breaks for the second time. Staring up at the ceiling, all Bucky can do is cry and listen to Natasha’s comforting whispers.

The war changed him. It poisoned his mind and infected him with a disease he can’t shake.

He is not the man he used to be.

***

“All I am saying is that with Odin gone, they won’t be much of a competition. He was the spearhead behind all of their products, his son is useless when it comes to that,” Howard says in a huff. “His son is a bit of a dope, I am convinced that he is simply a pretty face for them to use. His sister is the smart one.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tony interjects. “Thor may be a bit of an idiot, but he does his job well. If he didn’t, Odin wouldn’t sign the company over to him before he died.”

Steve sighs. They’ve been at this for most of the night; discussing the death of Odin and how Asgard Industries will be run now that he is gone. Asgard is Stark’s leading competitor in technology and weaponry. Somehow two geniuses, Odin Asgard and Howard Stark, exist in the same century and are both pushing out invention after invention at a rapid speed. Steve has never been involved in that part of the company—Howard and Tony never come by to shoot ideas at him, but he knows what goes into the work they do. He also knows the same effort goes into what is invented at Asgard – except for the fact that everything made there, was thought up by Odin. With Odin gone, the answer to the question that both Howard and Tony were trying to come to: how could Thor, Odin’s only son, become the CEO when he has no practise in the running something so huge?

 Steve sighs again. He wants to go back in time and tell Odin to not die, so that it could save him from having to hear this conversation for the eightieth time.

“But if that was the case, he would have done more prior to his father’s death. Hela, on the other hand, has been working alongside Odin since she was old enough to hold a pencil. Her work is phenomenal, I’ll be the first to admit it—when they released the Bifrost, I shit my pants—”

“ _Howard_ ,” Maria hisses. She is sitting beside Howard in the sitting room in their house. Steve sits across the room with Tony, both nursing a glass of whiskey. Peggy stepped out a few minutes ago, along with Tony’s fiancée Pepper, to powder their noses.

He winks at her and continues, “What I am trying to get at is, Hela should be the CEO of Asgard, not Thor. I have never seen the raw talent Odin had, in Thor.”

“But Hela is a woman,” Tony points out. “She might be more talented than Thor is, but she can’t be the head of Asgard.”

“Why not?” Howard frowns. “If she is capable, then she should be able to do it. Don’t be an idiot.”

“Dad,” Tony sits up and places his glass on the table in front of him. Maria breathes in loudly and Tony immediately lifts it back up again, grabs a coaster and places the glass on top of it. “I am not saying she can’t be the head because she’s a woman—”

“That is exactly what you’re saying!” Howard’s voice raises. Steve sighs for the third time. “Hela is a genius!”

“I am not saying she isn’t!” Tony is shouting now.

“Tony,” Pepper’s voice drifts in, “leave the work talk for later. I am sure Maria is beyond tired of hearing about it.”

“I know I am,” Steve smiles in thanks. Peggy comes into the room next, she comes to his side and kisses his head. She sits down on the arm of the couch and slides her arm around his shoulders.

“What else are we going to talk about?” Howard is genuinely pouting.

“Steve saw an old war friend today,” Peggy says. Tony spits out his drink and Steve almost chokes on his own saliva. Peggy pats his back in concern—no one helps Tony, which he’ll complain about later, but right now his eyes are on Steve. The concern from earlier in Steve’s office has returned.

“Oh?” Howard crosses his legs, his gaze bounces between Steve and Tony curiously. “Which one?”

“Well, a friend of mine works at the L&L—”

“Oh, they serve the most delicious apple pie,” Maria cuts in. “I stopped in one day one my way to a show, and I heard they make their own ice cream.”

 “Yes,” Peggy laughs, “they do make good pie.”

“Which friend works there?” Maria sips on her wine and Steve glances over at Tony. Tony can’t seem to sit still. He is fidgeting with his glass and jiggling his leg up and down. Pepper notices, and rests her hand over his knee, stopping it. She whispers to him and Tony shrugs as if nothing is wrong—then looks back at Steve.

“Angie Martinelli,” Peggy says. “I went to school with her, she’s a sweetheart. She called me today a little after Steve should have left, and said he was still there. Apparently, Steve ran into someone from the army and they were eating together.” Peggy looks to Steve and smiles. “Bucky, I think she called him.”

“Bucky?” Maria raises her brow, “I have never heard of a Bucky.”

Tony clears his throat, “James Barnes. Bucky is a nickname.”  

“Didn’t he die?” Howard drinks. “Lost an arm in Germany and died?”

“Yeah, that’s the one,” Tony shakes his glass and the Stark’s butler comes with the decanter. The butler pours some into the glass, before dropping a single ice cube into the cup. The sound it makes is quiet, but it pulses through Steve’s ears angrily. He looks up, and sees Howard staring at him peculiarly.

“You thought he was dead?” Peggy’s voice is careful. “Where was he?”

“Russia,” Tony answers for him. “Got picked up by the Russian Army and was brought there, completely unaware that he was American.”

“But why did you think he was dead?” Peggy’s question is directed at Steve. He doesn’t want to answer but everyone is looking at him and if Tony answers, Steve’s silence will become glaringly obvious. “Steve?”

“He was shot,” Steve is quiet. “We were in a bad place, a risky place and were separated. Tony and I were… safe. The others were not.”

Running through the thick mud, hearing Tony screaming at him to stop, and seeing dead bodies laying everywhere. Bucky’s screams of agony ripple through the German farm, Bruce hovers over him with gauze and morphine, Scott is grabbing Bucky’s head and keeping it from looking at the mess his arm has become. A bomb lands near them, Bruce and Scott are unmoving. Tony tackles him, covers his body over Steve’s and protects him from the debris. Bucky needs him.

Bucky _needed_ him.

“Excuse me,” Steve stands and leaves the room in a rush. He imagines Peggy trying to call after him and being silenced by Tony. He walks quickly to the bathroom and slams the door shut behind him, before dry-heaving over the sink. Nothing comes up. Not the roast dinner the Stark’s chef made, or the dessert Pepper brought from a bakery in Queens.

 A rap on the door draws his attention.

“Steve?” it is Pepper. “Tony and I are leaving; do you want us to drive Peggy home?”

His brow furrows, “No. W-Why would you take Peggy home without me?”

Pepper hesitates, “Tony thought you might want to stay the night here.”

“No,” Steve grabs a towel and dries his face. “I’m coming.”

To say leaving the Stark’s house was easy is a lie. Steve could feel everyone’s eyes on him. The only person not watching him was Howard, the elder Stark patted him on the back and went back to the sitting room. He wasn’t keeping a close eye on him, as if Steve was going to freak out again and run off. Howard is like that, he always has been. On the nights that Steve spent nights at their house after the war, and the nightmares were bad—Howard would find him in the kitchen eating leftover dessert, he wouldn’t ask what happened or what he dreamt of, he would pour Steve a glass of milk and eat with him.

Steve wishes Peggy was like that, in some way. As his hands grip around the wheel of their Chevrolet Corvette, Peggy’s fixed to his face, searching for something inside of him.

She touches his thigh, “Steve… I am sorry about Bucky.”

“James,” he says reflexively. Her hand falls onto the seat. “Sorry, it’s just, he didn’t— _doesn’t_ like people calling him Bucky.” His hands wring audibly on the wheel. “E-Except for me.”

“Tony told me about him,” she says and Steve snaps his head to look at her so fast, he almost rear ends the car in front of them. “He said you two were best friends before the war, as children – so losing him, i-it must have been so hard. I cannot imagine the pain you went through a-and the pain you are going through now, because you mourned a man who didn’t die—” A car honks at them from behind before cutting around them, shouting expletives as it passes. Steve pulls over to the side of the road. “But I hope you can imagine the pain I feel, finding out that my husband has kept his pain from me, when I could have helped i-in some way.”

“Pegs…”

“Why didn’t you tell me about him, Steve?” Peggy sounds like she could cry, she grabs his hands and holds them. “I love you and I want to help you when you’re upset. A-And I like hearing about your life before we met. James sounds like he was important to you, and from today, you were important to him too. I just… Why didn’t you tell me?”

Steve casts his eyes down, “Because I can’t.”

“Why?” Peggy leans forward, trying to catch his gaze.

“It hurts,” Steve’s next breath is ragged. “It hurts to think about, it hurts to talk about, I-I can’t Pegs.”

“Oh, Steve,” she hugs him. “We’ll work up to talking about it, okay? For now, I just want you to know that I am here, and you _can_ talk if you want to.” He nods, and Peggy pulls away, before kissing him softly. Her hand cups his jaw and brings him closer, he tastes her ruby red lipstick. “I love you, Steve Rogers.”  

“I love you, too.”

It is the truth.

He loves her more than anything, than _anyone_.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the next chapter, we go back in time to 1945, Bucky is recovering in Russia and Steve has arrived back in the States after the end of World War 2. 
> 
> Please let me know what you thought! I am trying really hard on this story, going so far to avoid writing my real-life projects. I hope you like it!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> long time no see!

_1945_    

He was in a forest; his fingers gripped the cool metal of his rifle, his finger constantly hovering over the trigger. Bucky looked up at the French sky, the clouds looked so different than they did back in America. They wisped around one another like a pair of lovers dancing in privacy. They reminded him of a blue-eyed blond and he quickly averted his gaze; now was not the time.

“Hey, Winter,” a voice called over to him. Bucky walked around the large tree separating himself and his partner; the soldier was kneeling towards the east with his back to Bucky.

“What the fuck are you doing, Parker?” Bucky asked, walking over to his friend’s side.

Peter looked up with a smile, “I saw a rabbit.”

“You saw a rabbit?” Bucky snorted. “You’re a fucking idiot. We’re supposed to be keeping watch.”

“Yeah and I saw a fucking rabbit.” Peter stood up, the leaves crunched beneath his boots. “It’s the only thing in this forest,” Peter continued, “I don’t know why Iron’s got us looking. This forest is thicker than I’ve ever seen, no one is going to be here.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His eyes roamed the woods around them carefully while his mind wandered to how careless Peter was. The Captain trusted him; Peter could climb anything in an instant and spot far away Germans. The squad relied heavily on Peter’s abilities, but Bucky was the only one that knew Peter wasn’t as skilled as they think. Still, Peter was his friend and the only person here his age.

“Did you have a girl back home?” Peter asked suddenly.

“There were girls,” Bucky said simply. Peter watched him curiously expecting him to say more but Bucky shrugged. “What about you?”

Peter nodded, “Yeah. Name’s Michelle. She’s real smart. Funny, too.” Bucky nodded in response. “Michelle’s my first girlfriend. There had been a girl I really liked before Michelle, but her dad didn’t like me much. He thought I was going to use her and leave.”

“Use?” Bucky questioned before he realised what Peter had meant. “Oh.”

“I wouldn’t have done that,” Peter said through gritted teeth. “I’m not like that, but because of my past he thought I was going to amount to nothing. He probably expected me to marry her straight out of school and get her pregnant, then disappear forever.” Peter clenched his hands around his rifle tightly. “He hated me so much that he moved their family out of Queens to get away from me. But look at me now, Mr. Toomes, I’m in the fucking army protecting your daughter from the fucking Germans!” Peter shouted so loud, birds flew from their perches and into the sky.

Bucky hissed, “Shut the fuck up, Peter.”

The brunet smiled toothily, “You scared of the Nazis, Winter?”

“Course I am,” Bucky frowned, “you should be, too.”

“Nah,” Peter continued smiling. “They don’t scare me. They’re a bunch of wusses. This war will be over before you know it.” Bucky didn’t point out that the war had been going on for 5 years now, with no end in sight. “Besides, even if I was scared, it wouldn’t matter. The Nazis don’t give a shit if you’re pissing your pants, they’re still going to kill you.”

“You sound like Iron,” Bucky said as his eyes roamed around the forest again.

Peter’s smile fell slightly, “He’s a good guy. Reminds me of my Uncle Ben.” Before Bucky could say anything more, Peter threw his rifle over his shoulder. “I gotta piss, what about you?”

“I guess I could.” Bucky slung his rifle over his shoulder and turned back to the big tree that had separated himself from Peter. Peter joined him at his side and they both unzipped their dirt green pants.

“By the way,” Peter said, “I wrote to Aunt May asking her about what you’d said. She’s more than welcome to let you stay with us after the war.” Bucky flushed in embarrassment. “Hey, it’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Peter said while bumping his shoulder against Bucky’s. “Believe me, if anyone gets what you went through it’s me.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said in a small voice.

“No problem,” Peter said. “You’re my friend, James. Fuck, I consider you family. I don’t got a lot of family, so I’ve got to take care of them, you know?” Bucky nodded. “Until then, you watch my back and I’ll watch yours. I gotta get you to Queens so you can try Aunt May’s walnut date loaf—”

A loud bang rang through the forest, the birds that had settled since Peter’s shouting once again flew into the air. Bucky stumbled, falling onto his knees; his eyes were wide and staring at the red mess that was once Peter’s head. Before he knew it, he was clutching at Peter’s body, letting out a hoarse howl. There was blood on his face and his hands, his boots were speckled with it.

Suddenly, a pair of arms wrapped around him and wrenched him away from Peter’s body. He was dragged through the forest, still howling and picturing the bullet ripping through Peter’s skull. The next thing he knew, Captain Stark was grabbing his cheeks and asking, “Are you okay, James?”

Blearily, he replied, “You never call me James.”

“That’s your name, kid,” Captain Stark said back to him.

“No…” he said. “I-It’s Bucky.” Captain Stark’s face went out of focus. “My name is Bucky. It’s Bucky.” He felt like he was being dunked into the ocean. He couldn’t hear anything but muddled voices and the light was so dim. “Bucky…” he kept saying, like a prayer. He thought of the clouds, the way they danced. Peter’s smile shined down at him, he was waltzing with a faceless girl—Michelle, thought Bucky. Queens seemed like such a nice home; he ached for a home. He had nowhere to go now. He was lost.

The sound of gunshots pounded through his head, followed by the echoes of his screams and a distant bomb exploding. He felt the pain of searing flesh burn through his left arm and he felt hot tears falling onto his face. Bucky screamed for Peter and he screamed for Steve. God, he wanted his mother.

His eyes burst open and was surrounded by white. He felt groggy, like he couldn’t move any of his limbs. It took effort to blink, like his eyelids were made of sand paper. Wetting his lips, he tried to talk but his throat was rough with disuse.

The shifting of leather to his right caught his attention. Slowly, because he couldn’t move any faster, he lolled his head to the side and saw a girl sitting in a wooden chair next to the bed he was laying in. She had dark red hair and icy-green eyes. She wore an old woolen sweater and tattered pants; her arms were folded across her chest and was staring at him. He hadn’t a chance to say anything before she got up and left the room wordlessly, only to return a moment later with a woman dressed head-to-toe in white.

The woman spoke to him but none of it made sense. It reminded him of when they spent nights in France alongside the other armies; he could never make sense of what the others were saying but he found it interesting to listen to.

When Bucky didn’t respond to whatever she said, the woman spoke again, this time slower as if it would help him understand. Bucky tried to shake his head, but he couldn’t move that fast.

The girl came back to sit on the chair beside him, her hand coming up and resting on the blanket beside his hip. She seemed concerned about him, though he had no recollection of ever meeting her. She replied to the woman in the same language he couldn’t make out. As she talked, her hand tightened around the blanket, gripping it tight as if she was trying to hold back.

The woman in white (a doctor, maybe?) folded her arms across her chest, she looked frustrated. While the red-headed girl replied, the doctor came to Bucky’s left side and pressed a stethoscope to his chest. She spoke then breathed heavily through her mouth and nose, and he mimicked her. This seemed to be what she wanted, because she nodded and listened through the ear pieces. A moment later, she stopped and spoke to him again, but he only stared.

Carefully, the doctor’s hands moved to his left shoulder and the red-headed girl grabbed Bucky’s right hand. She squeezed it and he looked at her, puzzled. When he tried to look back to the doctor, the girl made a tutting noise and pointed to her face, as if saying he should keep looking at her. As he stared at the girl, he felt the doctor grip his left arm and an Earth shattering pain rippled through him. He cried out, his body feeling as if it were on fire and the girl cupped his face with her free hand. She kept this up until Bucky felt a sharp jab and a cooling liquid seeped into him, relieving him of his pain. The girl’s gaze flickered from his face to the doctor and they spoke again. She smiled, the girl, at whatever the doctor said and her hand left Bucky’s cheek.

Everything around them seemed to fade as the cool liquid spread throughout his body. “My name is Bucky,” he mumbled incoherently. He felt the soft brush of the girl’s hand against his hand; it was comforting. Quietly, he heard her whisper, “Bucky…” as he fell into slumber.

***

The house was dark as he stepped through the front door. For a moment, he thought that maybe no one had been inside since the owner left for war but then he remembered hearing talks of preparations for his arrival. A light flickered on and the door shut behind him, then a body sidled past him.

“You can drop your things off here,” Tony said, as he toed off his shoes. “I’ll take them up to your room.” Tony stared at him; waiting for an answer. His eyes were full of pity and had been since they got on the boat to America from Britain. Tony wouldn’t leave him alone to his own thoughts, and had probably asked the other surviving members of their squad to do the same.

“No,” Steve mumbled, “I can bring it.”

“Okay,” Tony said equally as quiet. “Well, come on, I’ll show you around.”

Tony’s house was a two-story building – bigger than any Steve had ever stepped foot in – and had a small foyer before leading up both upstairs and downstairs. Tony went upstairs carrying his duffle bag and Steve followed, but not before taking off his shoes. Straight head was the kitchen and to the left was the large living room. Tony turned right and down a narrow hallway.

“This is the bathroom,” Tony motioned towards a room on the left. “It’s got a shower and a bath, so use those whenever you want.” Past the bathroom was a series of three rooms at the end of the hall. The one on the left was Tony’s room, Steve suspected, with how big it was and how Tony threw his duffle bag onto the floor. On the right, were the last two rooms, one was smaller and looked like an office. The other, “This is your room,” Tony said as he pushed the door open with his hand. The room had a large bed and two bedside tables, there was a house plant in the corner near the windows looking out onto the street and several shopping bags sat on the floor near the foot of the bed.

Steve dropped his things on the floor and walked towards the bags. There were clothes inside. New clothes.

“Mom bought them for you,” Tony said as he leaned against the door frame. “I told her you were skinny and shorter than me, so she went out and bought some things she thought you might like.” Steve pulled out a pair of slacks, they were fancier than anything he would have worn before the war. “If they’re not to your taste, we can go out sometime this week and get you stuff you would like. It’s been a while since my mother had to buy clothes for a teenager.”

“No,” Steve shook his head, “it’s fine.”

“Good,” Tony nodded. “Are you hungry? The fridge is all stocked so I can make you something to eat, if you want.” As if on cue, Steve’s stomach grumbled. “I’ll take that as a yes,” the older man laughed. “What are you hungry for?” Steve hadn’t had the luxury of thinking of foods he wanted. In Europe, they ate what they were given, even if that meant several day old bread and canned beans. His mouth watered at the thought of real food. “Grilled cheese?” Tony suggested and Steve almost shut his eyes in pleasure at the thought. “Right, so I’ll go make those and you can go wash up.”  

Tony left the room, shutting the door behind him and leaving Steve in the bedroom alone. Left in the silence, Steve sat on the foot of the bed; the springs didn’t creak like Steve was used to. Every bed he had ever slept on had springs poking up and jabbing him in the back. This one was soft, like one of the mattresses you’d find on display in a store. He sat there for a few minutes, relishing in the silence brought on by the suburban neighbour Tony lived in and the lack of Nazis shooting at him.

He got up and rummaged through his bag; finding his army fatigues and some random things he’d brought back from Europe. There was a wooden dog figure that he’d whittled down, some coins from the different countries he’d visited and his dog tags.

He moved next to the clothing Tony’s mother had bought. Steve pulled off his own clothes, a torn set of clothes the army had provided him with, and dressed himself in the new clothes. He wore the slacks he’d looked at when Tony was in the room, and a blue knit sweater. As he pulled the sweater over his head, he heard Tony in the kitchen mucking around. Quietly, Steve opened the door and made his way down the hall.

“Do you want tomatoes?” Tony asked as Steve walked into the kitchen. There was a small nook beside the fridge, where Steve sat when he came in. “When I was younger, Mom would cut up a tomato and put it in the sandwich, do you want that?”

“Okay,” Steve shrugged.

Tony kept his gaze on Steve before turning back to the grilling cheese. The older man sliced a tomato and plopped them into pan with the open sandwiches, then placed the other bread over top. It reminded Steve of when he was younger and watched his mother in the kitchen. Only, she was more careful with what she was doing, Tony wasn’t methodical and had made a bit of a mess.

“I wanted to talk about what you want to do now that we’re back.” Tony said as he pressed the spatula to the sandwich, making the pan sizzle. “I don’t think I ever asked.”

“I don’t know,” Steve said simply.

“That’s fine,” Tony smiled though there was strain behind it. “You have all the time in the world to figure it out. I’ll help you find out what you want to do. I spoke to my father, and I’m going back to work in a month, so until then I can look for things to do with you.” Steve nodded wordlessly. “Maybe I’ll show you what the Stark Industries building looks like. I practically grew up there.” As he talked, Tony scooped up a sandwich onto a plate and slid it in front of Steve. Cheese oozed from the edges and Steve’s stomach growled at the sight of it. “Eat up, kid.”

Steve did just that, and after a few seconds, Tony joined him in the nook with his own sandwich. They ate together in silence, other than the crunching of their sandwiches. This was the longest he and Tony had ever gone without words. The second longest time was after they’d found out the war was over. None of them had spoken for a while; they’d all gone to their own separate areas to come to terms with the end. Tony had waited a while before joining Steve, who was clutching his sides and crying. All Tony did was place a hand on his back and he started talking about the bike he got on his fifth birthday.

Tony placed his sandwich down and leaned towards Steve. “Listen,” he began, “what happened in Germany—” Steve stopped chewing mid-bite “—wasn’t anyone’s fault, least of all Winter’s. It was a bizarre accident that,” Tony swallowed heavily and shook his head. “The point is, dwelling on what happened isn’t good for you or for Winter’s memory.” He reached into his pocket and Steve heard the sound of a chain. Tony placed a pair of dog tags on the table in front of Steve. “They’re Winter’s.” Steve stared at the shining metal. “He gave them to me that night and told me to give them to you when we were back in America.”

Steve placed his sandwich down and wiped his hands on his pants – forgetting that they were brand new and probably expensive. He brushed his fingers against the cool chain and saw the name _Barnes, James_ engraved on the metal. Tears pooled in his eyes and Steve pulled his hand away as if he’d been burned.

“I wanted him to keep them so that if he was found he could be identified but he was adamant that I take them,” Tony went on. “They’re yours now. It’s what he wanted.”

Steve had lost his appetite, he pushed his plate away and stood up, “Thank you for dinner.”

“Steve—”

“I think I’m going to go to bed,” Steve left the kitchen without another word. He went into the bathroom first; brushing his teeth and washing his face. As the cool water splashed against his face, his knees buckled and he fell to the bathroom floor. His forehead pressed against the cupboards and he held back several gasping sobs.

He expected Tony to knock on the door to see if he was okay, but all he heard were the sounds of dishes being put in the sink and floorboards creaking past the bathroom. He waited until he heard Tony’s bedroom door shut before he stepped out and went to his own room.

Shutting the door behind himself, Steve flicked on the light and saw the dog tags he’d left on the table sitting on one of his pillows. Clenching his jaw, he went up to it and picked it up. Tony had cleaned it since they came back, it wasn’t covered in the grime that Steve had once known to be there. He felt the indented letters in the metal; trying his hardest to imagine the person whose name was written.

Steve changed out of the clothes he’d put on for dinner and crawled under the sheets with only his briefs on. He held the dog tags in his right hand and used his left to rub his thumb over the writing. He fell asleep with them in his hands and the name Bucky dying on his lips.

***

The girl with the red hair was at Bucky’s side every time he woke up. Sometimes she was reading a book and curled up beside him on a chair, other times she was watching him thoughtfully. She never talked to him when he woke up, not that he could understand what she would say anyway. Sometimes she would call for the woman in white again or she would just sit and watch him while he struggled to stay conscious. He hadn’t been able to stay awake more than 10 minutes since first waking up. Bucky’s eyes felt heavier with each time he woke up and the ache in his body seemed to increase, too.

Bucky stared up at the ceiling, his eyes still heavy and the ache in him growing every minute. Part of him yearned for the sharp jab the doctor always provided when she was in the room. It always made the pain go away for a time and made him fall back to sleep with ease. He knew somewhere deep down that his reliance on the medicine wasn’t good, he’d heard horror stories of men who went mad at the mere thought of getting another dose—but he didn’t care.

He turned his head to the side, seeing the red-headed girl beside him. She was reading a book; the cover was tattered like it had been read over a hundred times before and she was about halfway through. Bucky lifted his right hand and pointed towards it, making the red-head catch his movement. She held it up curiously and Bucky nodded.

“What book is it?” he asked. The red-head stared at him as if no noise had come out of his mouth. She held the book up and pointed towards the title which read, ‘ _Ромео и Джульетта’_.

Bucky smiled helplessly, “I-I don’t know what that says.” The girl frowned deeply and pointed at the illustration on the cover. A girl was hunched over the body of a seemingly dead boy, a dagger laid on the floor nearby and an empty flask sat beside it. Flashes of hot afternoons stuck in a classroom appeared in Bucky’s mind. “That’s Romeo and Juliet, isn’t it?” For the first time, the girl responded to something he said. She nodded and smiled slightly, before leaning down and reaching into a bag. She retrieved a pen from it then ripped one of the pages from the Shakespeare play and scribbled something. The girl held the sheet up and Bucky blinked in confusion; written in her child-like writing was his name.

He looked up to her, “You know my name?” The girl took sheet back and wrote again. Below his name was now written ‘Natasha’. She pointed at the name and then to herself. “You’re Natasha?” he said and she nodded, still smiling. “Can you speak English?” he asked her; he tried sitting up more but pain shot through his body and he hissed.

Natasha looked concerned for a moment before she spoke, “You are American?”

Something cracked a little in Bucky, “Yes, I’m from America.”

Natasha nodded, “You speak in your sleep. Always English.”

“Where am I?” asked Bucky.

“St. Petersburg,” Natasha said to him and Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d heard her correctly. “The military brought you here.”

“B-But,” Bucky furrowed his brow; foggy memories of mud and the stench of blood came filtering through his thoughts. A foreign language flowed around him as he was grabbed, pocked and prodded at. Distant gunshots echoed as the sky above him moved like he was floating. Concerned faceless nurses looked at him, a doctor held a jagged blade in their hands. There was screaming. So much screaming.

“You are hurt,” Natasha said. “I have sat with you since you arrived.”

 Bucky blinked rapidly and he tried sitting up again, pain shot through his left arm. Instinctively, he grabbed at it with his right and had a handful of bedsheets. Every nerve in his body was alert as his eyes roamed over to the left side of the bed—there was no arm. He had no arm. “My arm,” he said in a voice that didn’t sound like his own. “Where is my arm? Where is my arm?!”

Natasha stood up, her book forgotten and she grabbed his right arm. “Stop,” she said trying to get his attention from his armless side. “You are hurt. Stop.”

“My arm is missing!” Bucky screamed. The flesh cut off at his shoulder, which was heavily bandaged and had blood seeping through the gauze. Natasha grabbed his face, like she’d done the other day, and forced him to look at her. “Please, where is it? Why isn’t it there?”  

“Stop,” she said sternly. “Your arm is gone. They cut it. You are healing.”  

The door opened quickly and the woman in white looked perturbed. She spoke rapidly to Natasha and she had to stand quickly, her hands leaving Bucky. Bucky watched as the doctor yelled at Natasha and motioned wildly to Bucky. Natasha argued back, but that was all Bucky could pay attention to. The lack of an arm was far more important than watching them. He reached with his right arm and felt his left shoulder. His chest heaved and he started to cry; he grabbed at his face with his hand and let out a muffled scream.  

It must have been noticeable, as the doctor and Natasha had stopped their fighting. Bucky could feel the phantom teeth of the blade that cut off his arm dig through his arm and the bone. It got stuck halfway through the bone; his body had reached its limit and everything went black.

Natasha’s touched his shoulder and Bucky whimpered; returning to the hospital room with her and the doctor. The doctor came to his left side and looked at the shoulder, which had successfully ruined the gauze with its bleeding. Without saying a word to Bucky, the doctor began unraveling the gauze and Bucky watched as the wound began to appear. It was ugly. The edges were jagged and the stitching wasn’t done well. Bucky wasn’t an expert in medicine or how wounds should heal, but he had seen his fair share of injuries in the war. He’d watched Bruce stitch up Iron’s chest injury in a rat infested trench; he had done a better job than whoever did Bucky’s arm— _shoulder_.

The doctor touched it without any worry she was hurting Bucky, which she was. With every poke, Bucky hissed and tried to pull away from her. She said something to Natasha and the red-head left the room. Bucky looked up to the doctor, who acted like Bucky didn’t exist.

“Please, why was my arm amputated?” he asked her. She ignored him. “It should be there!” She went on ignoring him. “I shouldn’t even be here, I’m American!”  

Natasha came in as he said this, her face telling him he needed to be quiet immediately. Behind her, followed a stern looking Nun. Her face was wrinkled with age and she had a firm grip on Natasha’s shoulder. The Nun spoke to the doctor, who replied very casually. The Nun let go of Natasha’s shoulder and walked over to Bucky’s right side. She began saying something in Russian that Bucky couldn’t understand. He looked to Natasha for clarification but she shook her head and pointedly looked at the Nun.

Suddenly, the Nun slapped his cheek and shouted in his face.

“I don’t know what you’re saying!” Bucky’s voice cracked. “I’m American! I don’t speak Russian!”

He was slapped again.

“Stop!” He shouted at her. “I can’t understand you!”

The Nun nodded her heads towards the doctor and Bucky saw the doctor pull a needle from her pocket. The needle was filled with a clear liquid—it was morphine. She tapped the air bubbles out of it and came towards Bucky. Without thinking, Bucky flung his arm and knocked it out of her hand, making it land across the room.

The Nun hit him again, this time he knew it would leave a bruise. She grabbed the collar of his hospital gown and shook him angrily, as if that would make him understand her any better. He felt a sharp jab in his thigh and saw Natasha holding the needle against his leg. An silent apology was written across her face and Bucky felt the room fading away again.

“N-No, stop,” he mumbled. “I don’t want it.”

The Nun let go of him and he plopped back to the bed. His shoulder pulsing with pain. She chuckled heartily with the doctor who wiped sweat from her forehead and laughed at an unspoken joke. Before Bucky succumbed to the medically induced sleep, he saw the Nun leave and motion for Natasha to follow her.

When the girl didn’t, the Nun frowned deeply, “ _Natalia_.”

Quickly, Natasha left the room with the Nun. Bucky fell under as the doctor prodded at his shoulder again—he wished he was dead.

***

Stark Industries was larger than Steve had ever imagined. It towered over every other building in Manhattan and encased the streets surrounding it in shadow. Right above the main doors was the title of the company in big letters; as some people passed, they pointed at it smiling. Stark Industries was the company that provided the American military with its iron and other metals. A day didn’t go by while they were in Europe that he didn’t see the logo on a set of wooden boxes or on weapons themselves.

A week had passed since he and Tony had arrived back in America. For the first few days, he and Tony only saw each other when they were in the kitchen grabbing something to eat. Everything had caught up with them both and their bodies needed time to recuperate. On the sixth day of this, Tony came into his room unannounced wearing only his pyjamas and laid in Steve’s bed with him.

“I’m bored,” he’d said. “We should go get some fresh air.” Steve nodded, though neither of them were in a hurry to move. They both laid on Steve’s bed for a while and at one point, Steve thought Tony had fallen asleep. That is, until the man shot up and said, “We could go to Stark Industries. I’d told you I was going to bring you, right?” Steve nodded again. “Alright, then we’ll go tomorrow. Wear the clothes Mom bought you. She might be there.”

Steve shrugged. There was nothing else for him to do.

So, here they were. Tony looking on at the building with an expression of longing and excitement; and Steve wishing he hadn’t agreed to this. He missed the softness of his bed and the luxury of wearing his pyjamas all day.

Tony escorted him into the lobby of the building with his hand on Steve’s shoulder. Heads turned at their entrance; mouths fell open in surprise at the sight of Tony and others frowned in confusion at Steve. They didn’t know who he was. A portly looking man wearing a three piece suit noticed them and sauntered over. He looked greasy and had his hair combed back with too much oil.

“Anthony,” the man held open his arms as if expecting Tony to hug him. Tony did not, instead his hand left Steve’s shoulder and simply held it out to be shaken. The man’s eyes twitched but he lowered his arms and shook Tony’s hand. “It has been so long since I’ve seen you,” said the man. “How was the war?”

Steve frowned, _how was the war_? What kind of question is that? The war was awful. People died. They saw people die. His chest burned angrily and he pressed his hand to where it hurt. Metal burned beneath the fabric of his shirt. He removed his hand before Tony could notice the movement.

Tony frowned deeply and let go of the man’s hand, “It was war.”

“Yes, but we won. That is all that matters,” said the man. Steve puffed up his chest, preparing to say something but Tony placed his hand back over his shoulder. It felt like a silent message to keep quiet, so he did just that. The man noticed Tony’s movement and finally looked at Steve. “Who is this?”

Tony smiled, “Private Steven Rogers of the 108th Unit.” The man didn’t seem impressed by this. “Steve will be living with me indefinitely. I’ve brought him here to show him around the place I grew up.”

The man frowned. “But Anthony,” Tony sniffed at the use of his full name, “your career has just begun; with the war out of the way, you cannot possibly be taking care of a child. You are only 29. What does your father think of this? Surely he isn’t okay—”

“Steven!” Howard Stark’s voice bellowed from across the lobby. The entire lobby stopped what they were doing and looked at the man in the three-piece suit with an immaculate mustache striding towards the teenaged boy no one knew. Mr. Stark hugged Steve tightly and said, “I have been looking forward to your arrival!”

The nameless man stumbled slightly and blinked in confusion; along with everyone still watching the CEO of the company. “Y-You know this boy, Howard?” asked the man.

Mr. Stark looked at him as if he were an idiot, “Of course I do. Come, Steven, I must show you everything—”

“ _Everything_?” the man gasped. “He hasn’t the security clearance nor can a random boy be trusted with the secrets of Stark Industries. What if he is a spy for Odin?”

“Richard,” a muscle rolled through Mr. Stark’s jaw, “the boy is 17 years old. Odin has his own children that age to deal with, he is not going to send another to find out what I am up to. As for the security clearance, I was going to tell him this as I gave him a tour of the building but he has full access.” Steve’s eyes widened and the portly man looked like he was going to have a heart attack. “That is the custom for any Stark family member.”

“F-Family member?” the man stuttered uselessly. Steve felt the same shock as the man, Richard, felt. Family member? He wasn’t related to the Stark’s. He was just some kid that was living in Tony’s house. He didn’t deserve this kind of treatment.

Steve had no family.

Mr. Stark sighed heavily, “Good day, Richard,” and walked off towards the elevators. Richard spluttered and looked to Tony who was trying to hold back a laugh. Tony grabbed Steve’s elbow and pulled him along towards where his father had gone.

The trio stepped into the elevators and Mr. Stark told the operator which floor they were going to. When the gates shut, Tony burst into laughter and had to lean against the wall to keep himself standing. Mr. Stark let out a chuckle and looked to his son, who only burst into a harder set of laughs.

“That was Richard Hunter,” Mr. Stark said to Steve. “A man who I am not quite fond of, but keep around.”

“Why?” asked Steve.

“He’s a spy for Odin,” Tony said as he calmed down. “Dad gives him access to the older inventions that don’t work and he goes to Odin telling him that they’re brand new. Odin will try to remake what Dad made, but it won’t work because the inventions were already found to be faulty so Odin will just waste his time trying to do it.” Steve nodded, pretending as if he knew who Odin was.

The elevator door opened on the 17th floor and the two Stark’s walked out with Steve trailing behind. A set of heavy metal doors stood before them and Mr. Stark punched in a number on a keypad before the doors swung open, leading them into a corridor looking like it belonged in a science lab. Steve followed the pair as they passed by several rooms with large windows looking inside, with men and women in lab coats tinkering on strange contraptions Steve had never seen before. He swore he saw something alive in one of the rooms.

They finally stopped in front a room with the same windows, only no one was inside. A large padlock was in the middle of the door, like a safe, and Mr. Stark turned the lock until Steve heard a quiet ‘click’. Mr. Stark pushed the door opened and a sudden rush of cold air blew out. He followed Tony inside and Mr. Stark shut the door, it locked loudly as it closed.

“So, this is it?” Tony said in awe as he circled a table with a round object sitting on top of it.

“It isn’t fully functional yet,” said Mr. Stark as he put his hands in his pockets. “It can run easily enough and we’ve tested that it can carry six tons with ease. However, as you can tell, the room must be chilled because it cannot function over 32 degrees.”

Tony carefully reached out and touched whatever it was. “What is made of?” he asked.

“Vibranium, among other things,” said Mr. Stark. “I spoke with a dealer bringing some into the states and ordered large quantities so we can start mass producing as soon as we figure out how to keep them cool.” Steve came closer to the table catching Mr. Stark’s attention. “What do you think?”

Steve wet his lips, “I don’t know what it is.” This seemed to be exactly what Mr. Stark wanted to hear. His eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas.

“This,” Mr. Stark beamed at him, “is a tire for a car.”

Steve blinked, “It’s a tire?”

“Yes, but there’s a slight difference between _my_ tire and the ones on the road currently.” Mr. Stark flicked a switch on the table and the tire began to whir loudly. It sounded like the engines to the planes that would fly over their heads in Europe. Slowly, the hubcap began to glow a faint blue and Steve could feel a slight breeze coming from it. The tire began to rise from the table on its own and Steve immediately took a step back in surprise. He looked around the room as if on instinct to find the strings pulling it up from the ceiling but there was nothing. The tire was floating.

“It’s a hover tire,” Tony said. “It is more economic; burning rubber isn’t good for the atmosphere.”

“And once I figure out how to get the gas-free engine to work, it will be the first hybrid vehicle on Earth,” said Mr. Stark. Steve leaned in towards the tire and reached out his hand hesitantly. “Go ahead, you can touch it if you’d like.”

The tire was cool to the touch and felt smooth like a frozen lake. Wind came from tiny holes that were hard to see unless you were close up. He was amazed that it was hovering on its own accord; he checked the ceiling for strings again just to make sure Tony and his father weren’t pranking him. He hadn’t any idea Mr. Stark was this inventive. He now understood why Tony was well-known in the army.

“Odin would have a fit if he knew I was making this,” Mr. Stark said to Tony. “He’d try his best to remake it but I know for certain that my provider will not deal with Odin.”

“Why?” asked Tony.

“He hates Asgard,” Mr. Stark said with a smirk. “Told me as much when I met him. I have a feeling it is a case of bad blood.”

“How do you know he won’t go to Odin and tell him you were asking for Vibranium?” Tony asked while Steve continued to look at the tire in amazement.

Mr. Stark shrugged, “I did him a favour.” Steve glanced at Tony and saw Tony obviously wanted to know more but Mr. Stark clapped his hands together. “We should go to the Executive Floor. I’ll show you around and introduce you to everyone, Steve.” He flicked the switch again, making the tire slowly return to the surface of the table.

They left the room and walked back into the elevator. Tony and Mr. Stark were heavy in conversation about things Steve didn’t understand. He watched the doors shut and swore he saw the figure of a portly man in the hallway.

“Tony—”

“Pepper is my secretary now,” said Mr. Stark and Steve saw the colour drain from Tony’s face. “Didn’t your mother tell you?”

“No,” Tony said softly yet strained. “She didn’t.”  

“Who is Pepper?” Steve wondered but neither of them answered. Tony was fixed on the door and Mr. Stark was looking at a pocket watch but it looked dead.

The doors opened and Tony exited without another word.

“Mr. Stark, are you getting off?” asked the elevator operator.

“Yes, sorry,” Mr. Stark shook his head distractedly and Steve followed. Big mahogany doors read ‘Executive Floor’ and a secretary sat outside the doors. She was on the phone and had her hair pinned back tightly. She greeted Mr. Stark as he entered – Tony already having gone in without them – she watched Steve as he kept close to Mr. Stark. The entirety of the Executive Floor was filled with women on telephones that were tapping away on type-writers.

A door slammed shut in the distance and a short woman came striding towards them. “Mr. Stark,” she was panting slightly, “Tony is back?”

“Leave him,” said Mr. Stark, “I said something that upset him. He’ll be fine.”

“O-Oh,” she nodded and breathed out heavily. “Well, okay.”

Something seemed to change in both Tony and Mr. Stark at the mention of Pepper. Steve had never heard the name before, so he assumed it must be someone from Tony’s past. He wanted to ask again but Mr. Stark looked deflated. The energy he had had in the lobby and in the room with the hovering tire had vanished in an instant; Steve became suddenly aware of the dark circles under his eyes. Wordlessly, Mr. Stark walked off towards where the woman had run from. Steve followed, of course, because there was no where else for him to go.

Mr. Stark went into an office without saying anything to Steve and shut the door, allowing Steve to see the nameplate ‘Howard Stark, Founder & CEO’. Disheartened, Steve looked around helplessly. Just down a bit, he saw the woman sit down at a desk outside another office—Tony’s office, he guessed.

“Can I help you?” asked the woman sitting outside of Mr. Stark’s office. She had strawberry blonde hair and was young, maybe around Tony’s age. Her desk had a nameplate on it that said ‘Pepper Potts’.

“Um,” Steve swallowed, “I’m here with T-Tony and Mr. Stark, but they kind of just went their separate ways.”

Pepper’s eyes flickered with a slight emotion at the sound of Tony’s name but other than that she seemed to not care. “You’re Steve, aren’t you?” Steve nodded. “I am Pepper, Mr. Stark’s secretary. You can sit down here,” she pointed to a loveseat near her desk. “Mr. Stark often has guests waiting for him so he had a loveseat put out here for them.”

“Thank you,” Steve went to it and sat down awkwardly. Pepper went back to her work and Steve sighed in defeat. He wished her were in bed; he shouldn’t have taken up Tony’s offer to come here. He felt like a zoo animal with everyone looking at him; some of the secretaries glanced up and whispered about him.

Steve folded his arms over his chest and hissed slightly when metal dug into him. Emotion wadded through him and he had to blink his eyes to stop tears from forming. He’s been wearing the dog tags ever since he woke up with them still clutched in his right hand a week ago. They remind him of what he’s lost and what the war did to him. He could see Bucky lying in mud, pale and lifeless. The grip of his hand weakened around Steve’s and Tony grabbed at Steve’s shoulders, pulling him away.

He stood up without warning and startled Pepper. Steve wiped his cheek inconspicuously and said, “Is it okay if I go get some fresh air?”

“Yes, of course,” she said. “If you go past those rooms down there, there is a balcony with a place to sit. I’ll let Mr. Stark know where you’ve gone.”

Steve thanked her and went towards where she pointed. He passed Tony’s office, the lights were off and from the outside it seemed that there was no one inside. There were more offices belonging to men who Steve didn’t know: Hank Pym, Anton Vanko, Obadiah Stane, and more. There were so many things in Tony’s life Steve didn’t understand and he didn’t think he would ever understand.

As he turned down the hall towards the balcony, he heard a familiar voice.

“—are you sure you can get the schematics?” the familiar voice whispered harshly.

“Of course I am, you idiot,” said a man Steve didn’t know. “If I wasn’t I wouldn’t spoken to you.” Steve poked his head around the corner and saw Richard Hunter speaking to a balding man. Richard flushed anxiously and the bald man continued. “I’ve been told that Odin will pay us both a pretty penny for this.” Odin? That was the name Mr. Stark and Tony used when they talked about the spies. Steve peered further and tried not to give away that he was listening in. “Stark doesn’t deserve this. Have you heard he’s taken in a teenager? If that is his attempt at charity, he is pathetic.” Richard shifted his body awkwardly and the bald man asked, “What is it? What do you know?”

“The boy, his name is Steven,” said Richard, “Howard gave him full access to the entire building. He said it was custom for family.”

“What?!” the bald man shouted. “ _Family_?! He said that?”

“Yes,” Richard confirmed. “I am just as shocked as you are.”

The bald man began pacing back and forth, “This is exactly what we need. This deal with Odin is meant to bring down the Stark empire; if Howard is considering this boy family, he intends to have as many heirs to protect it. He must be on to us, that is the only reason he would have taken in this boy.” Steve’s stomach twisted anxiously. “Life would have been so much easier if Tony had been killed in Germany,” the bald man continued.

“What?!” Steve came around the corner; anger pumping through him. “What did you just say?”

“Who are you?” the bald man’s face twisted in confusion.

“This is Steven,” Richard hissed, “the _boy_.”

“You weren’t there, you didn’t see people dying in front of you. Do you know how many lives Tony saved?” Steve clenched his hands at his side. “Every single day, Tony kept each of us alive. Whether that was from making sure we ate and drank water throughout the day, or keeping us from getting shot.”

“Listen, _Steven_ ,” the bald man came towards him slowly; an smarmy grin on his face. “I could not care less who died in the war and if Tony tried saving them; to me, Tony is the asshole keeping me from becoming the CEO of a billion dollar company. He is better off dead.” Richard snickered behind him. “You really think you mean something to the Stark’s? Let me tell you something, they only care about themselves. Howard preaches about making the world a better place, but if that was true, why would all of his inventions still here and not out on the streets? Because they still need to work out the kinks?” Steve went to answer but he cut him off. “No. Howard is keeping them all for himself. The money that made this company are weapons made to cause destruction. He is a monster and so is his son.”

“They’re not like that,” Steve said.

“What do you know? You’re just a kid.” The man laughed. “Newsflash, Steven, you are their pawn. You are a charity case. They don’t want you and the moment the talk about the Stark’s taking in a poor teenaged soldier dies down, you’ll be thrown to the curb.”

“Stop!” Steve’s voice wavered.

“You are nothing to them,” the bald man spat. He clasped Steve’s shoulder, jerking his body and the dog tags around his neck jingled. Carefully, the man fingered the chain and pulled it out from underneath his shirt. “These aren’t yours…” said the man. “Who is James Barnes?”

Steve slapped the man’s hand away, “None of your business.”

“How dare you hit me?” the man hissed loudly and slapped Steve across the face. Steve staggered and hit the hallway wall. “Come, Richard, we have other things to discuss.” They left Steve in the hallway, his face flushing where the man hit him and the dog tags dangling from his neck in plain view.

“Steve?” Pepper’s heels came clicking down the hallway. “Are you alright?”

“Yes.” Steve stood, trying to shield his cheek from view. “If it’s okay, could you tell Mr. Stark and Tony that I had a great time, but I think I’m going to leave.” As he said this, he started walking down the hallway, carefully tucking the dog tags back under his shirt.

Pepper followed him, “What happened—”

“Thank you,” Steve said and weaved his way through the maze of desks to get to the mahogany doors. The secretaries whispered at him again.

  _The moment the talk about the Stark’s taking in a poor teenaged soldier dies down, you’ll be thrown to the curb._

“Steve!” Tony’s voice carried across the floor. Steve turned and saw Tony striding towards him; Pepper stood by Tony’s office with a concerned look on her face.

What the man had said was absurd, but the more Steve thought about it, it made sense. Why else would Mr. Stark be so willing to accept him? He was a random boy who fought in the war with his son. Tony had no reason to offer his house as a place to stay after the war. Was he a pawn in their story? Was he their charity case?

When Tony reached him, he caught sight of the handprint on Steve’s check. He grabbed Steve’s chin and studied it. “Who did this?” he inquired. “Who hit you?”

Steve moved away, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does, come on,” Tony used his superior strength to pull Steve back across the Executive Floor and into his office. It had a desk and a plush office chair, there was a small bar inside and a couch with a coffee table. Tony shut the door and pointed to the couch, “Sit.” Steve did so begrudgingly. Tony dragged his office chair over to the couch and sat in front of Steve. “You are going to tell me who hit you.”

“No I’m not,” Steve said with a finality to it.

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Steve, this is serious. If someone hit you, I need to know.”  

“No you don’t, it’s fine!” Steve said. “I just want to go—” home? He cleared his throat, “I just want to go.”

Tony rubbed his face in frustration. “You’ve got to work with me here, Steve. Pepper came to my office and told me she found you on the floor with your face all red and your dog tags out. What is going on?” Steve’s lip trembled. “Are those your dog tags?” Tony asked. Steve shook his head. “They’re Winter’s, aren’t they?” Tony swore under his breath. “You shouldn’t be wearing them.”

“You said they were mine,” Steve pointed out, “I can do whatever I want with them.”

Tony shook his head, “Not that.”

“Why?” Steve’s voice rose slightly.

“It is disrespectful, they aren’t yours to wear.” Tony snapped. “His family deserves to know their son is dead!”

“Bucky had no family!” Steve shouted; tears sporadically falling. “Why do you think he asked me to have them? I am the only person he cared about! And now he’s gone and I have no one!”

“Am I no one?” Tony scowled.

“You don’t care about me!” Steve stood up; standing over Tony. “I am just some kid you pity! When you get bored of me you’re just going to throw me out! There is no reason for you to care about me or want the best for me! You don’t even know me!”  

“You’re being a child.” Tony rose and towered over Steve. The expression on his face reminded Steve of when Tony would argue with Captain Davison of the 106th. “Firstly, Winter may not have been close with his family but he _has_ family. His parents deserve to find out their son is dead if they don’t know already. I don’t know who Winter listed as his contact, or if he wrote anyone at all but they should know.” Steve gritted his teeth. “Secondly, I made a promise to myself that I would get you out of the war alive and I would take care of you. You don’t have to live with me if you don’t want to, but I _want_ you to. You don’t anyone listed as your guardian and at the moment, you are seventeen—I changed that. I am a legal adult and I am your guardian. You can leave my house the minute you turn eighteen if really want to fuck off and push away someone who wants to take care of you!” Tony yelled at him, spit sprayed across Steve’s face. “Now tell me, who hit you?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said hissed.

Tony grabbed at Steve’s face, “Just tell me!”

“I DON’T KNOW!” Steve screamed at him.

The door swung open and Mr. Stark poked his head in, “Could you lower your voices, the entire State of New York can hear you.” He walked the rest of the way in and closed the door. “What is going on?”

“Steve was hit and told me he wants to leave.” Tony said and Mr. Stark nodded calmly. Tony wet his lips frowning, “He isn’t telling me who hit him, and he thinks I don’t care about him.”

Mr. Stark looked between Tony and Steve then came over to sit on the couch. “Tony, would you please give Steve and myself privacy?”

“W-What, this is my office—”

“This is my company.” Mr. Stark quipped. “ _Now_ , Anthony.” Tony threw up his arms in defeat and stormed out; slamming the door loudly. Mr. Stark motioned for Steve to join him on the couch. They sat in silence for a minute or so before Mr. Stark leaned his back against the cushions. “Tony is still young, he hasn’t raised a child and doesn’t understand how much work goes into that,” quickly he continued before Steve could cut in, “you are a teenager and I know this. I only mean that Tony doesn’t have the experience dealing with someone younger who he is responsible for.”

“He doesn’t have to be responsible for me,” Steve said. “Nobody asked him to be.”

Mr. Stark pursed his lips, “When did your mother die?” Steve’s heart lurched. “How old were you?”

“I-I was fourteen.” He gulped. “Why?”

“I am not intending to be insensitive when I say this, but do you think she would have wanted someone like Tony taking you in?” Mr. Stark asked and Steve pictured his mother’s face in her last days. She had been uncertain of the priest in his parish and his wife taking Steve in; but she didn’t want him on the street, either. “The look on your face says that she would have loved having Tony take care of you,” Mr. Stark said. “My son is still young himself and there is much he needs to learn, but he is willing to take care of you. He sent Maria and I a letter while you were still in Europe asking if we could prepare his house for your arrival. He told us that if he died while still there, that he wanted us to take care of you in his stead.” Steve blinked in shock. “I don’t know what drove him to make that decision but I think it has something to do with those dog tags you’re wearing.”

Steve’s hand came up to his chest, feeling the dog tags beneath his shirt.

“I am not going to ask why you’re wearing them or who he was to you, that isn’t my business,” said Mr. Stark, “but whoever he was, his death influenced Tony.” Steve could remember when he first met Tony; how upset he was that he, Bucky and Peter were all there despite being underage. “If you want to leave, I am not going to stop you and I will stop Tony from going after you but I do not want you thinking my son doesn’t care about you.”

“Okay,” Steve swallowed heavily.

“Could I ask why you think that?” Mr. Stark asked. “Does it have something to do with the bruise on your cheek?”

Breathing in heavily Steve said, “I was told that you and Tony don’t care about me; that you only care about how people will be talking about how charitable you are for taking me in. He said that all of your inventions are just for show and you’re a monster for creating weapons of destruction. ”

“Obadiah Stane,” Mr. Stark said quietly. “Was that the man who said this to you?”

“I don’t know,” Steve said. “He was balding a-and he was with that man from earlier, Richard Hunter.”

“That is Obadiah,” Mr. Stark touched his mustache as he went deep into thought. “My inventions aren’t for show. I have full intentions with releasing many of them when I am given the chance. As for the monster part, I do not think I am a monster. I supplied the army with those weapons so that our military and our allies could come home safely. It is unfortunate that they had to be used against other people but such is life.” Mr. Stark stretched his arm out and grabbed Steve’s chin to get a better look at the forming bruise. “Was it Obadiah that hit you?” Steve nodded. “Why?”

“He asked who my dog tags belonged to and I pushed his hand away.”

“Thank you for telling me.” Mr. Stark stood up. “I will have to talk with Obadiah about this. He shouldn’t have said those things to you nor should he have hit you.” He prepared to stand, “I hope to see you here again. I have a lot more to show you.”

“Mr. Stark—”

“Please, call me Howard,” he smiled.

“H-Howard, c-could I not have full access to things?” Steve asked.

Mr. Stark – _Howard_ – raised his eyebrow, “Does that mean you are staying with Tony?” the younger man shrugged. With a smile Howard continued, “Could I ask why?”

“I don’t deserve it,” Steve said. “I’m not family.” Howard opened his mouth and Steve said, “I’m not.”

Howard studied him, “What do you want to do as a career?” Steve shrugged. “There must be something.”

“When I was younger, I wanted to be an artist,” Steve said. “I can draw.”

Howard clapped his hands together, “Well, then it’s settled. Three weeks from now when Tony returns for work, you will come with him. You are now an intern in Advertising.” Howard got up and beamed down at Steve.

He left Steve on the couch and intended to go to the door but Steve shot up; so fast he was dizzy for a moment. Getting hit had distracted him from why he had eavesdropped on Richard Hunter and Obadiah. Howard looked at him confused and Steve said, “Mr. Stark, I have to tell you something.”

“Oh?”

“Those men—they’re selling the schematics to your hover tire to that Odin person.”

Howard smiled calmly, “Thank you for telling me, Steve.”

He left and Steve sat back down, his eyes moving rapidly around the room. He grounded himself by touching Bucky’s dog tags. He doesn’t have a family anymore—but he had people that cared for him. And so did Bucky.

A night later, Steve slipped one of Bucky’s dog tags into an envelope addressed to a Mrs. Barnes living in Hamilton, NY; along with a letter that read, “James was brave. You deserve to know that. He was my best friend. I am sorry.”

***

           

Rain fell loudly against the window as Bucky sat in bed. He watched the water trickle down the glass just as thunder rippled through the sky. The sound brought him back to the farm field and the landmines going off as people ran desperately for safety. Banner and Lang were with him, he recalled, and they were the ones that carried him into the barn as triggered mines exploded, throwing bodies in every direction. He slapped his hand to his face, rubbing at his eye sockets; trying to erase the image of body parts flying past him out of his mind.

Night had fallen in St. Petersburg and the hospital was quiet. The door to his room was shut and the lights were off, though he could see the light of the hall under the crack of the door. Every so often, he caught a glimpse of a nurse or doctor walking by. They were all women, as was expected. When America joined the war, Bucky saw fathers and sons leave their homes, leaving the jobs they’d had and saw more women filling their spots. He’d never been curious if it was the same elsewhere, but it was.

Bucky glanced over at the empty chair next to his bed. Romeo & Juliet still sat half-opened on the seat and he frowned. Natasha hadn’t been back since the Nun walked her out that day and a week had gone by since then. He hadn’t realised how much he had enjoyed her presence, even if they hadn’t spoken to each other until the day she left. It was nice having another person in the room that wasn’t poking at him and rebandaging his arm— _shoulder_.

They’d been giving him less and less morphine every day. His body felt dull with pain, and not just from his shoulder. He suspected his body was catching up with the trauma he’d been through and was making everything pulsate and ache. Bucky stretched his hand up and flexed it, watching the bones and muscles move beneath his skin.

_At least it wasn’t his dominate hand that was cut off._

His jaw fell open in shock at his own thoughts.

Bucky’s hand dropped back to the bed and let his head fall back against the raised up pillows. He’d already run out of his tears; it was like he’d forgotten how to cry. He no longer cried when he tried telling the nurses that came in that he wasn’t supposed to be in Russia. Not that it mattered anyway, they ignored him when he shouted he was from America. They’d foregone even looking at him now. It was like he was some lump of meat they had to repackage every day so it he didn’t spoil.

Lightning flashed outside the window, illuminating the room. A second later, thunder boomed and Bucky’s heart clenched in his chest. He pulled off the thin blue blanket and stepped out of bed. He walked over to the window and grabbed the cord, preparing to close the blinds. From his window, he could look out into St. Petersburg. The city was asleep despite the storm raging on. Trees blew angrily in the strong winds and the rain flew like pellets. Bucky released the cord and pulled the window open, letting the fresh air fill the room. Water dripped into his fingers and he stretched his arm out, feeling the rain pierce into him like the needle of the morphine.

Bucky’s eyes fell shut. There had been a storm like this when he was France. They were on day-watch and night had stretched across the sky. They’d all gone to their own separate places in the trench they’d been calling home for a few weeks. He and Steve were sitting in a tiny spot they’d claimed. Huddled beneath a blanket trying to keep warm. Steve didn’t like thunder, it scared him and made him think of the bombs they often heard exploding in the distance. Bucky told him they were going to be okay.

Was it raining where Steve was? Could Steve feel the rain against his skin? Did the unit reach safety? Were they alive?

Was Steve alive?

He wrenched his arm back into the room and slammed it shut. Breathing heavily, he pressed his forehead to the glass—fogging up the window. At a snail’s pace, Bucky pulled on the cord and let the blinds fall shut. Gone was the lightning but the thunder still roared through the sky, sending shivers down Bucky’s spine.

It masked the creaking of hinges and a pair of sneakers tip-toing into the room. A hand touched Bucky’s right shoulder and his body lit on fire. He spun around, his heart in his throat and he screamed. The hand clasped over his mouth as he fell to his knees in shock.

“It is okay, it’s me.” Natasha whispered calmly. Bucky could barely make out her face in the darkness of his room. Her hair was pinned back and she was soaking wet. “I need to talk to you.”

“W-What are you doing here?” Bucky asked. Natasha only ever visited during the day and left as the sun set. Natasha took off a backpack and placed it on the floor beside them before pulling out a handful of papers. “What are those?”

“Citizenship papers,” Natasha said. “I am going to make you a Russian citizen.”

“What?!” Bucky said a bit too loud because Natasha covered his mouth again. She jerked her head towards the door where the light still shined beneath the crack and they both saw the shadow of the night nurse pause outside Bucky’s door. A minute passed without a single noise between Bucky or Natasha, when the nurse continued her rounds outside. Bucky removed Natasha’s hand, “What are you talking about?”

“If they realise you’re American, they are going to do bad things to you,” Natasha told him. “Our countries are not allies. We fought the same war but we will never be on the same side.”

“Fought?” Bucky frowned, “What do you mean fought? Don’t you mean fighting?”

Natasha blinked and reached into her bag again. “I found this. It is American.” She held up a newspaper and flicked on a flashlight. In her hands was the New York Times dated May 7th, 1945.

_The War in Europe is Ended! Surrender is Unconditional._

“It is over,” Natasha said softly. “For three weeks now.” Bucky read the paper quickly catching things he couldn’t comprehend.

_The surrender, which brought the war in Europe to a formal end after five years, eight months and six days of bloodshed and destruction, was signed for Germany by Col. Gen. Gustav Jodl._

“I-It’s over.” It wasn’t a question. “The war is over.” Bucky laughed. “It’s finally over.”

“Bucky,” Natasha took the newspaper from him. “It is good, but you are not safe here.” Bucky couldn’t hear her. All he could focus was on the fact that the war was over and Steve could go home. Steve was going to be safe. That was all he ever wanted. “ _Bucky_ , listen to me, you must sign these papers.” She shined the flashlight on the citizenship papers. “If you are a Russian citizen, they can’t touch you.”

“B-But I can go home,” Bucky said to her, “the war is over. It is okay for me to go.”

“You aren’t listening!” Natasha said as loud as she was able. “It isn’t safe for you! You are American who was found wearing a Russian uniform. They think you are a Russian soldier and if you sign these papers, we can say you are. If you want to go back to America, you have to be Russian.” She placed the papers in his hand. “Sign them.”

Bucky shook his head and stood up, “I don’t understand. Y-You can’t just tell me these things and expect me to believe you. The war is over. I just read that the Americans and the Russians signed the surrender together.” He walked over to his bed and sat down on it. “And you said you only spoke a little English. You sound pretty fucking fluent to me. Who are you?” Natasha rose. Lightning shined beneath the blinds and Bucky saw her eyes were washing with tears.

“You heard the Nun call me Natalia,” Natasha’s breathing was laboured. “That is my name but I don’t want that name anymore. I don’t want to be who they want me to be. My father was a very important man; he worked for the government. His title gave me luxuries no one else had. I learned four languages and I studied in foreign countries; life was perfect.” Natasha wet her lips. “He was killed alongside my mother in a car accident four years ago. I was thirteen.” She was barely holding herself together. “Since then, I have learned what kind of man my father was and what he was in charge of.”

“Natasha—”

“I refuse to be associated with a man like him. I refuse to continue my life with his name and I swore to help people.” She came to him and wiped her face roughly. “I am going to help you.” Natasha took hands Bucky the papers. “I cannot sit and watch you get hurt. You’ve already been through too much,” she motioned to his missing arm. “I hear you speak in your sleep. You have seen far worse than any man should have ever seen. Your eyes are sad. Your heart is heavy.” Bucky’s chin wobbled. “You must sign the papers. For your own sake.” Bucky gulped. He hadn’t an idea if Natasha was telling the truth or not; but the tears on her face were too real to be made for a lie. He took the papers from Natasha and stared at the foreign language written upon them.

Bucky looked back up at her, “What will I do once I sign them? I want to go back to America.”

“I’ll help you do that.” Natasha was firm about that. “I live in a hostel down the street. In two years, I will be 18 and able to leave. I have two others in my care but after that—”

“Two years?” Bucky repeated. “What would I do for two years? Can I not just go to the embassy and tell them I am American?”

“Do you have the money to go to Moscow?” asked Natasha. “That is where the embassy is, do you not think I researched that for you?” Natasha sat down beside him on the bed. “In two years, we will both be able to earn enough money for the trip to Moscow and to fly to America to bring you home.”

Bucky looked back down at the papers. “How did you plan this?”

“I am a quick thinker.”

“Apparently.” Bucky snorted. “I just… This is a lot to take in. I woke up a week ago with no left arm. The war is over and I can’t go home. I-I don’t know what I can do.”

Natasha tentatively rested her hand on Bucky’s left shoulder; his eyes shot to where her fingers brushed over the bandaging. “I cannot imagine how hard this is but I want to protect you from the people who will try to hurt you. If you sign the papers, you will be a Russian citizen by tomorrow morning.”

“How?”

“I hate my father but he had allies who sought the truth and who I trust. They gave me the papers. They can do it.” Natasha said. “People have already died since the ending of the war. Bad things are coming; maybe even worse than what happened in Germany.” Bucky didn’t believe that. He could never see things worse than the war he witnessed and he felt. But God, he wanted to see Steve. His entire being craved Steve. He needed to see him. “Please.” Natasha pled.

“Hand me the pen,” Bucky said quietly. He was going to do this for Steve.

In the light of the flashlight, Bucky wrote his information down while Natasha read out to him what he needed to write. He was to write in English, she explained, as having a Russian ask for citizenship made no sense. As he wrote a particularly long section of the citizenship requirements, Natasha would go over to the door and listen for the nurses. In a particularly terrifying moment, she had to hide under the bed with her bag and the papers when a nurse opened the door to check on Bucky. The nurse didn’t ask why he was sitting up and she only nodded at him before leaving the room once more.

“Your name is James?” Natasha asked as he wrote it for the umpteenth time. “James Barnes?”

“Yes.”

“Why do you go by Bucky?” she wondered. Bucky froze.

He cleared his throat. “My best friend calls me Bucky. My middle name is Buchanan, and when we first met, he couldn’t pronounce it. Bucky just sort of stuck.” Bucky continued writing as he said, “Could you call me James? It’s just, Steve is the only one to have ever called me Bucky and it feels… like it belongs to him. We fought in the war together, in the same unit actually.”

He could see Natasha staring at him as he tried focusing on the papers in front of him. She tucked some hair behind her ear and then quietly said, “Is he dead?”

“No,” Bucky swallowed. “Not that I know of.” Natasha didn’t ask anything more after that and as Bucky wrote down more of his information, he wondered if he was making the right choice. He wanted to see Steve again, that was the one thing he knew he truly wanted in this world but he still couldn’t fathom what Natasha was trying to tell him. Another war? This soon after the war in Germany? It made no sense. Why weren’t the Russians and the Americans allies? He had so many questions and he felt like he would never have answers.

Natasha was a stranger to him. To Bucky, she was some girl that he kept seeing in his room every time he woke up. He had no idea if she was lying to him about this war or if she was just using him but he supposed he really had no other choice. The embassy was far away and he had no money here. He had no arm and no money and was far from home.

He reached the end of the papers asking for his date of birth and his full name. Closing his eyes he took a leap of faith—something he didn’t have much of since he first arrived in France. _March 10 th, 1926_, he wrote, and beside that his signature.

“Here,” he gave Natasha the papers. “I finished it.”

“Good,” she took them and put them back into her bag, along with the pen. “It will be done by morning. I will come as soon as I can with your identification; around lunch, maybe. Then, I can sneak you into the hostel. The children won’t mind your being there.”

“Children?” Bucky laid down on the bed; his mind nearing exhaustion. Natasha reached into her bag again and held a tattered photograph. Shining the flashlight on it, Bucky saw two young children standing beside Natasha. A boy and a girl. They were the same age and neither were smiling. At the bottom of the photograph was Natasha’s messy writing: _Myself, Wanda and Pietro—1944_. “Your siblings?”

“No but I take care of them,” Natasha took the photograph back. “I told you. I want to help.” Thunder crackled and Bucky squeezed his eyes shut. “I will help you, James,” her fingers brushed his forehead. “I will see you tomorrow.” With that, she left as silently as she came. Bucky yawned and rolled to his right side, tucking his arm under his pillow. He imagined brushing his left hand through Steve’s hair, watching the blond fall asleep and letting out tiny snores.

The next day, Bucky ate his food anxiously. Every time someone passed the doorway his heart beat rapidly but disappointed washed over him when it was never Natasha. He kept running through Natasha’s plan to earn money for two years and leaving for America with the money they had. Two years was a long time. Anything could happen by then. This was Natasha kept referencing could already be in full swing. How would they leave for the enemy country?

“James?” a small voice came from the doorway.

Bucky looked up from the door and saw a small girl. She wore dirty clothes and had a smudge of dust on her nose. Her hair was shoulder length and looked as if it hadn’t been washed in a week. She was the girl in Natasha’s photo.

“Wanda?” Bucky said and the girl came towards him. In her hands she had an envelope and she placed it on his bedside. “Where is Natasha?” Wanda blinked at him and he realised she didn’t speak English. “Thank you,” he said instead. Wanda pointed at the envelope as if to see he had to read it.

The envelope wasn’t sealed so he slipped his hand into it and pulled the papers out. They were the Russian citizenship papers, as Natasha had said, and a handwritten letter. Wanda indicated that was the more important thing to be focussing on; she pointed at it and said something in Russian.

The letter was from Natasha, he could recognise that childish scrawl anywhere. _James_ , it began, _I sent Wanda to deliver your papers because the Nuns at the hostel are watching me carefully. They know I snuck out last night and returned early this morning. My father’s friend did me another favour this morning—to prove to you I fully intend to get you back to America. If you look in the envelope, you’ll find it. I told you, you talk in your sleep. I’ll visit soon –Natasha._

Bucky looked back to the envelope and saw more papers. He had Wanda pull them out for him and he looked them over. Without warning, he dropped them as if he’d been burned and his vision went blurry with tears.

_Pvt. Steven Grant Rogers, July 4 th, 1927. Status: Alive. Location: Manhattan, NY, USA.  _

And there was Steve’s picture. It was blurry from being printed on paper but there he was. He couldn’t ask how Natasha’s father’s friend had found this or how he had gotten it so fast but he didn’t care. Steve was alive and Steve was in America. Steve was _safe_.

In two years, he was going to find Steve.  

In two years, he was going to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw poor Bucky, obviously he doesn't return home in 2 years. I have so many things to talk about here. First things first, I wanted to point out that Steve and Bucky both cry so fucking much. I've been trying to make them sound different voice wise, but idk I'm tired and I don't think I managed that. Secondly, I pulled Natasha's backstory out of my ass and even I struggle to believe any of the shit she said - that's why Bucky is like how can I believe her? The war she's hinting at is the Cold War, her father was a spy for the Russian government and was killed because of that. He's not a good guy. As for his colleague, he managed to get the photo of Steve with Steve's information because they've got fancy technology similar to the Stark Industries stuff. I'm excusing my own laziness at researching technology in the 40s with that. Anyway, I saw Infinity War and sobbed in the theater. 
> 
> Thanks for reading. Please leave kudos/comments if you enjoyed reading or if you had any thoughts on this! <3


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Bucky kisses someone in this chapter that is not Steve or Natasha. The character he kisses is not going to be a main character, they are just there to move the plot along. As well, there are heavy implications to the racism African-Americans faced (and still do) in the States during 1950s. Just a heads up if that isn't your cup of tea.

_ 1956 _

August went by faster than Bucky could blink his eyes. It has been so long since he felt the transition from the scorching weather to the cooler, yet still warm heat. He smooths back his hair and sighs before leaning back against his chair on the bus. Brooklyn is a fair bit away from Manhattan, almost an hour by bus and as the minutes went by he increasingly regretted his decision getting on the bus.

It was a week ago that he got a call on his and Natasha’s new phone—it was nicer than the one they had in Russia—and several hours later, the phone rang. Bucky had been sitting in the living room reading a newspaper when it did and heard Wanda answer. Seconds later, Wanda came walking into the living room.

“James, someone has called for you,” she said and walked back to the phone as he followed her. The black receiver was sitting on the kitchen counter (they hadn’t decided where it would go in the house) and he picked it up.

“Hello?” he said.

  _“James!”_ the voice said gleefully. Bucky’s brow furrowed, he _knew_ that voice. _“It’s Tony Stark. How are you?”_

Bucky blinked rapidly, “I-I-I’m good, how-how are you?”

Tony chuckled quietly, _“I am doing great. Listen, I can’t talk for long, but I wanted to invite you to come to Stark Industries and catch up.”_ Bucky sucked in a deep breath and nodded, then quickly remembered Tony couldn’t actually see him.

“Yeah, sure,” Bucky finally answered.

 _“Great. Do you have a pen and paper? I’ll give you the address and the details right now.”_ Tony said, and Bucky quickly pressed the receiver between his head and shoulder, before waving his arm at Wanda. She watched him with a smirk before she handed him her notebook and her pen. _“James?”_

“Yup, I got it,” he said clicking the pen and pressing it to the paper. Tony then gave him the address and told him to be there by 1pm, and they said their goodbyes.

Since then, Bucky has been fidgeting with anxiety. Stark Industries was one of the places he saw himself working at after the war. He has no idea what he would have done there but it seemed like a reachable goal what with Tony being his unit captain. Now Steve is working there and when Bucky arrives, there is no doubt in his mind that they will run into each other.

A small piece of paper burns in the pocket of Bucky’s slacks and he pulls it out. Steve’s work information. It is more crinkled now than it was when Steve handed it to him. It has been in Bucky’s pocket since he saw Steve in the diner; with each change of pants, the card went along with it. He doesn’t know why he hasn’t called or reached out to the younger man. Part of it is that he is terrified of meddling in the life that Steve has carefully built since the war. Another part of him is afraid of Steve not wanting to see him. He and Natasha have spoken about this; spending too many late nights on the tire swing in their backyard and it always comes down to Natasha saying he needed to do what he wanted.

And that is seeing Steve.

The city of Manhattan flittered by the bus window to his left. The diner he saw Steve in is nearby; Stark Industries is just down the street, then. The bus stops and Bucky takes in a deep breath, before getting up and following the other passengers off. He pockets Steve’s business card, alongside a scrape piece of paper from Wanda’s notebook with their phone number on it – in case he needs to call – and looks to the left in the direction of the company. Many business men and women are walking past him; all wearing pressed suits and carrying expensive bags. Bucky presses his lips together, finding himself self-conscious of the ordinary suit he is wearing. It is different than the one he wore when he saw Steve; Natasha’s paycheck had paid for it.

The Stark Industries building is larger than Bucky expected. It must rival in height with the Empire State Building. Hesitantly, he pushes open the door and finds himself standing out amidst those in the lobby. There are more of the business men and women he’d seen outside, and they all immediately looked at him.

Swallowing deeply, Bucky walks over to the front desk where a lady sitting is studying him peculiarly. “Um,” he begins and she holds up a hand – silencing him.

“We are not hiring at the moment,” she says with her eyes fixed to his clothes and his missing left arm.

“That isn’t why I’m here,” Bucky frowns, “I have an—”

She holds up her hand again. “Manhattan has an excellent unemployment center,” she places a card onto the desk and slides it towards him. “It is ten minutes from here, by foot. Thank you.” She turns away and begins talking to another woman sitting behind the desk.

“I am not here for a job,” Bucky raises his voice making the women look at him. “I have a meeting with Tony Stark.”

The first woman laughs and grabs her phone. “Okay, what is your name?” she asks but she isn’t taking him seriously.

“James Barnes,” he tells her.

“I doubt Mr. Stark would book a meeting with you today,” she sighs and doesn’t dial a number on the telephone. “He is quite booked and is a _very_ busy man.”

“I talked to him on the phone personally and he told me today,” Bucky says.

She raises an eyebrow and finally presses her red-nailed finger to the telephone. From where he stands he can hear the ringing of the phone and then a woman’s voice answer. The lady has a smile on her face, as if waiting to be able to call security to kick Bucky out for insisting he has a meeting. “Yes, I have someone in the lobby alleging that they have a meeting with Mr. Tony Stark this afternoon.” Bucky rests his hand on the surface of the counter. “James Barnes,” the lady says already starting to wave over at security. Then, her smile goes rigid. Bucky swears he sees her eye twitch. “H-He does? But—” she is cut off by whatever the woman on the telephone says. “Okay. I-I will be sure to tell him,” and she hangs up. “Mr. Barnes,” she says through gritted teeth, “if you could just sit down, someone will be down for you momentarily.”

“Thanks,” Bucky smiles toothily before walking over to the couches. When he sits, he looks back to the two women at the desk, they are whispering and trying to subtly point at him. He turns away and laughs under his breath.

The lobby of Stark Industries is not only full of people in suits, but ads for whatever the company is pushing at the moment. Most of the art was colourful and has drawings of fantastical machinery. From where he sits, he thinks one of the machines is a floating car but he can’t be sure.

“Rogers has outdone himself.” A man sitting nearby Bucky says to another. “Did you see the advertisement for the new telephone they unveiled?”

“No, I didn’t,” replies the other.

“Rogers drew something so realistic, I swore it was a photograph, but it had his signature in the corner. I immediately had my wife send in an order form for it,” the first man laughs. “It still boggles my mind that Howard hired him without an interview. He must have seen some talent.”

“You know I was in the lobby when he first arrived,” the second says. “The tiniest little guy you’d have ever seen. I remember all of us just staring at him and were all in shock when Howard came out of the elevator to greet him.”

“Mr. Barnes?” Bucky hears and finds a strawberry-blonde standing in front of him; she’s wearing a dress and had her hands folded in front of her. “I am Pepper Potts, Tony sent me down to bring you upstairs.”

“Oh, hello,” Bucky stands.

“Tony apologises for not meeting you himself. An important meeting came up last minute and he’s currently still in it, but he’ll be out as soon as he can,” Pepper says and starts leading him towards the elevators. The two women from earlier are following him and Pepper with their eyes. “The Executive Floor, please,” Pepper says to the elevator operator. “Is this your first time at Stark Industries?” Bucky nods awkwardly. “It can be overwhelming.” Pepper leaves it at that and they remain silent until they reach the 45th floor.

They exit and Bucky follows Pepper through a set of mahogany doors that say ‘Executive Floor’ on them, and they entire a large room filled to the brim with desks and people clacking away on typewriters. Pepper leads him past them all as he tried ignoring everyone looking at him, and they reach an office that reads ‘Tony Stark’ on the door. Pepper opens the door and walks in.

“Tony should be out soon,” Pepper says once Bucky is sat on a chair in Tony’s office. It’s extremely spacious with a large white desk, a leather office chair, the armchair Bucky is sitting on and a two couches with a coffee table a few feet away that has an alcohol cart sitting nearby. “He is quite pleased you agreed to come,” Pepper says to him. She closes the door and moves to sit in Tony’s office chair. “I understand you fought in the war together?”

“Yes, Tony was my captain,” Bucky says.

“He is admirable,” Pepper smiles. “He wrote to me once mentioning a boy named Winter, wasn’t that you?”

Bucky blinks and tries to recall a time Tony had a letter. He was with the 108th for one and a half years, Tony only had a letter once and Bucky was the one who found it. He could remember Tony’s shock when he saw the addresser and told Bucky it was from someone named Pepper, “Aren’t you Tony’s old girlfriend?” Bucky says without thinking.

Pepper grins slightly, “Fiancée, now.”

“C-Congratulations,” Bucky flushes slightly.

“I am glad to see that you are well,” Pepper’s eyes flickered to his left shoulder for a brief second. “Has it been hard getting use to America, again?”

“Um,” Bucky swallows, “a bit. Hearing people speaking English is something I have to adjust to. But I grew up in Brooklyn, so being back there is nice.”

Pepper opens her mouth to say more but stops as they both hear running footsteps coming towards the door. Without warning, the door swings open and Steve Rogers propels into the room. Bucky stands, his heart in his throat.

“Pepper,” Steve is panting, “do you know where my portfolio is? I can’t find it and Hill hasn’t seen it.”

Pepper smiles, “I haven’t.”

Steve deflates, “Son of a bitch,” then runs his fingers through his hair. “I need it, like right now—” Steve stops and looks to where Pepper has been staring—at Bucky. Steve stumbles slightly and tilts his head to the side, “Bucky?” he says.

“Hi,” Bucky murmurs.

“W-What are you doing here?” As Steve asks, he keeps looking back and forth between Bucky and Pepper.

“Tony asked him to come,” Pepper answers. “Is he still in the meeting?”

“Yeah,” Steve says quietly, “I-I need to go back but I need my portfolio. Howard wants to show the Asgard’s something b-but I can’t find my portfolio.” Steve looks back to Bucky with an unreadable expression. Bucky feels every part of him contract and all he can do is look back at Steve. “Um,” Steve blinks and turns away, “I should go get my… portfolio.”

“Okay,” Pepper looks like she’s trying to hold back a laugh. Steve doesn’t look back at Bucky as he left and Bucky drops his gaze to the floor. Is Steve upset with him for not calling? Steve has to know Bucky had wanted more than anything to call him but he is afraid, God, he is so afraid. Bucky sits back down. Pepper leaves the room after Steve does so she can help him find the thing he is looking for. He closes his eyes, trying to calm himself down. If Natasha were here, she would try slowing his breathing down so he tries to imagine her with her hand on his chest trying calm his heart beat and his intake of air.

There is a knock on the door and Bucky opens his eyes. Tony Stark is standing in the doorway; it is like seeing a ghost. Tony looks the same as he did in ‘45, only a bit more tired and with a relaxed smile. “Hey,” Tony says softly, “are you good?”

Bucky smiles, “Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.” Tony comes farther into the office and held out his arms. As if on automatic, Bucky stands and hugs him.

Tony had been his surrogate older brother when they were in the war. He was the first person Bucky met when joining the 108th; his charismatic nature and warm smile had comforted a very scared, sixteen-year-old Bucky. Tony looked after him, took care of him; he was someone Bucky could talk to without fearing being judged. He was the last person Bucky saw before he was found by the Russians and lost his arm.

“I am glad you’re alive, Winter,” Tony says quietly and before he realises it, Bucky is crying on Tony’s shoulder. Tony lets him go and kicks the door shut, before he leads him to the couch. Bucky hunches over and sobs into his hand, while Tony rubs his back. Bucky can feel his hand tingling and the air in the room thinning. “Come on,” Tony whispers, “it’s okay. You’re fine. Just breathe.” Bucky sucked in a ragged breath and stuttered out a ‘thank you’. Tony grabs a tissue from the box sitting on the coffee table and hands it to Bucky, who thanks him again and wipes his face. “You don’t need to thank me.”

“No,” Bucky shakes his head, “I do.”

“James—”

“For Steve,” Bucky says firmly.

Tony blanches slightly. “He doesn’t know about that. I never told him.”

“Oh,” Bucky sniffles a bit, “but I can still thank you.”

“Yes, I guess you can.” The older man clears his throat, “So were you stared at downstairs?”

“Uh, yeah,” Bucky smiles. “The two women up front kept pointing at me.”

“You’re faring better than Steve did. The first time I brought him, he went home sporting a black eye,” Tony laughs. “It wasn’t the best first impression.” Bucky lets himself laugh, too. “Steve said you are married now; what’s her name?”

“Natasha,” Bucky says. “She moved here with me, and her younger siblings – twins.” It is easier to say they were Natasha’s siblings than explaining that she and Bucky unofficially adopted them despite having no relation to either of them. “We wanted to come to America sooner but things came up, so it took a while.”

“Well, you’re here now,” Tony claps him on his left shoulder and Bucky sees his eyes flicker down to the armless side just like Pepper’s had done.

“It’s okay,” Bucky says, “it’s been 11 years.”

“I know,” Tony sounds strained. There’s a knock on the door and Tony shakes his head, the emotion on it vanishing. “Come in!” It’s Steve, he’s holding a large binder – his portfolio. “Steven, how nice of you to pop in.”

Steve looks at Bucky for a second before looking at Tony saying, “Howard is escorting Thor out. He wants you there.”

Tony feigns a groan, “I just sat down.” Regardless, Tony stands up and Bucky does the same. “I still need to talk to you,” Tony says to Bucky, “so you two mingle while I go deal with this and I’ll be back.” He leaves, leaving Bucky with Steve alone in the room.

“You were crying,” Steve says so softly that Bucky is afraid he didn’t hear him properly.

“Uh, yeah.” Bucky realises he is still holding a tissue and his face is probably red. “Seeing Tony kind of, uh, brought back stuff.”

Steve presses his lips together and nods. “Are you okay, now?” he says, again soft, like he is afraid of speaking any louder.

“Yeah, I think so,” Bucky says. Steve nods and casts his eyes down. “Is that the portfolio you were looking for?”

Steve looks to the binder in his hands, “Yeah, it has all of the advertisements I’ve drawn for the company. Howard – uh, Tony’s father – wanted me to show a client some of them.” Steve flips the cover and looks inside briefly. “Do you want to see them?”

“Sure,” Bucky smiles hesitantly, which Steve returns.

“I can show them to you in my office,” Steve starts to leave and motions for Bucky to follow him. When he exits Tony’s office, more of the secretaries sitting at their desks are watching him. He knows they’re probably wondering who he is and how he knows both Tony and Steve. Across the floor, Bucky sees Tony alongside a man who is without a doubt Howard Stark, and a taller blond man. He and the blond man make eye contact before Bucky averts his gaze to Steve’s back.  

Steve’s office is a few doors down from Tony’s is. The nameplate on the door reads ‘Steven Rogers, Head of Advertising & Creative’. Steve opens the door and lets Bucky in first. It’s similar to Tony’s office, though a tad bit smaller and lacks the second couch. Steve left the door open ajar and came to the desk, opening his binder while he did. Bucky steps beside him, trying not to focus on the fact he can feel Steve’s body heat from where he stands.

Steve flips through the book silently, sometimes adding a comment here and there about one of the drawings; when Bucky points at one of the photos. “I saw that in the lobby,” it is a drawing of a floating car. In the corner, it is dated June 1945.

“It is the first thing I drew for Stark Industries,” Steve says. “During my first visit, Howard showed me some of his inventions and hired me the same afternoon. This was the first thing I showed him after that.”

“It’s really good.”

“Thanks.” Steve continues flipping through the book and Bucky nods along every time Steve says something about them. He’d always enjoyed Steve’s drawings; one of his favourite things used to be watching Steve sketching in the trenches with his two-inch pencil. When Steve reaches the end of the book, he doesn’t close it. Instead, he looks at Bucky curiously. “I have a question.”

“Okay,” Bucky swallows heavily.

“Why didn’t you call?” Steve goes soft again. Bucky sucks in a breath. He wasn’t expecting _that_. “Did I say something to you that… Upset you?”

“No!” Bucky almost shouts. “No, of course not.”

“Then what?” Steve sounds like he is sixteen again. Small. Scared. Afraid of being killed on the frontline. But the way Steve is looking at him, makes _him_ feel like he’s on the frontline. He had been terrified of talking to Steve; telling Steve _why_ he is terrified of talking to him is even worse. Bucky cannot just tell Steve that he is afraid of ruining the life Steve has had since the end of the war and Bucky’s “death” or that Steve doesn’t want to see him. “Bucky?” Steve says and Bucky realises he’s been silent for a while.

“Um,” Bucky laughs nervously, “d-do you want the truth?”

Steve is serious when he says, “Yes.”

Bucky clenches his hand at his side and wet his lips. “I-I, uh, I didn’t call you because I… Um,” he laughs again this time sounding like he is shivering, “I was afraid that if I call you, y-you would tell me that you would not want to see me.” There is a baseball in Bucky’s throat, he is sure of it. “O-Or that, if you did see me, I w-would somehow mess up your life. To you, I have been dead for 11 years. You’ve a life that you didn’t have a 11 years ago and having your dead friend come back i-isn’t going to help,” His eyes were squeezed shut. “A-And I am fine with whatever you want so if you want me to leave right now, I can—”

“Bucky,” Steve is firm and Bucky reopens his eyes. “I would never want you to leave. I waited 11 years for you to come back. I _want_ you, Buck.” A weight lifts of Bucky’s shoulders and it feels like the first time oxygen has ever been in his lungs.

“Mr. Rogers?” a woman comes into the room. She has dark brown hair, tall and slender, she’s holding a pile of files. “Your wife is here.”

“Peggy?” Steve frowns and another woman enters the room.

And God, she is perfect for Steve Rogers. Her face is kind, she looks as if she has never seen a dark day, and she’s beautiful. Really beautiful.

Peggy stops as she enters and stares at Bucky, “I-Is this James?”

Steve splutters for a good 20 seconds before saying, “Y-Yes. Uh, Bucky this is my wife Peggy, Peggy this is my…” Steve almost chokes. “Bucky— _James_. James. This is James.” 

“Hi,” Bucky manages to say right before Peggy is hugging him.

“Steve has told me so much about you,” Peggy says while still hugging him. “You will never know how happy I am that you are here.” She kisses either side of his cheek and holds his face in her hands. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Bucky isn’t entirely sure what he is being thanked for.

Peggy lets go and turns around to Steve, “Are you ready?”

“For what?” Steve leans against his desk with his arms folded across his chest.

Peggy laughs. “It is your niece’s 2nd birthday today. We are supposed to be heading to Ossining to have dinner and celebrate.”

He blinks in realisation. “Right, okay, I just need to finish some things up and I’ll be right out.”

“Alright,” Peggy beams. “While you do that, I am going to go say hello to Pepper. It isn’t often I get to visit this floor. That should change, Mr. Rogers.” She turns to Bucky before leaving, “We must invite you and your wife over to dinner one day. I want to learn all about you!” She kisses his cheeks again and she is gone as quick as she came.

The other woman, Steve’s secretary Bucky thinks, closes the door after Peggy exits leaving Bucky and Steve alone in the room.

“She’s beautiful,” Bucky smiles. “You’re a lucky man.”

“Bucky…” Steve sounds so sad.

“She’s right. We should have dinner. I think you’ll like Natasha,” Bucky is trying not to let his emotions get the best of him. “I mean, her accent is a bit thicker than Peggy’s is but I kind of like her.” This makes Steve laughs. “Peggy’s British?”

“She’s from London. She moved here with her brother in 1950.” Steve explains. “Her brother was a soldier in the British Armed Forces. After the war ended, he wanted to live his life to the fullest so Pegs joined him and here we are.” Bucky nods wordlessly as he looks back at Steve’s portfolio. He fixes on the hovering car. “You really like them?” Steve asks him.

“Of course,” Bucky tells him. “You said you wanted to be an artist. It was your dream back then.”

“Do you want it?” Steve blurts out then reddens. “The drawing.”

He smirks, “Don’t you need it? For that client you were talking about?”

“Thor?” Steve says and backtracks when he realises Bucky has no clue who that is. “Sorry, the client isn’t really a client. It was just easier to say. He’s more of a… business friend? I don’t know but he did want to see my work but not for a business deal – so I don’t really need it.”

“But isn’t this the first drawing you’d ever done?” Bucky sees Steve’s messy artist scrawl in the corner with the date. June 1945.

Steve shrugs, “Yes but I want you to have it.” The now taller man – because Steve apparently went through another puberty after the war – reaches into the binder and pops open the rings. He pulls the drawing out, not seeing one of the hole-punches is still caught and the binder falls to the floor. Papers spread around both Bucky and Steve’s feet. Simultaneously, the pair duck down to pick them up.

They’re both laughing.

That weight that had been on Bucky’s shoulders is now non-existent.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Steve whispers as Bucky hands him a drawing. Their hands touch and Bucky is sure that baseball is back in his throat. Steve looks at him like he’s the full moon on a clear night. The air in the room grows heavy and Bucky falters, letting his gaze fall to Steve’s lips before catching himself. Steve’s eyes are a shade darker than they had been before Bucky had looked away. “We should, um,” Steve wets his lips and chuckles nervously, “pick this stuff up.”

“I’m glad, too,” Bucky murmurs, “that I’m here.”  

“Buck,” Steve moves a fraction of an inch closer just as the door opens again – does this building have locks? Bucky is convinced they don’t. Tony enters and doesn’t notice them right away, giving Bucky and Steve enough time to clean up the papers and stand. “Here you go,” Steve hands Bucky the drawing.

“Steve, Peggy is waiting out here,” Tony says, “how dare you keep your wife waiting?”

“You’re one to talk,” Steve raises an eyebrow at the older man.

Tony pretends to be insulted. “How can you stand him?” Tony is asking Bucky. “He’s so rude.”

“He’s okay, I guess,” Bucky shrugs non-committedly.

“Okay, get out of my office I need to go,” Steve pushes on Bucky’s right shoulder until he joins Tony in the doorway. Tony wraps his arm around Bucky and walks him away. Nearby, Peggy is talking to Pepper and Steve’s secretary. Bucky sees Steve join them, his arm coming around to rest around Peggy’s waist. He is happy for Steve.

He is.

“Is this James?” Bucky hears. Tony’s father, Howard, has his sleeves rolled up as he approaches his son and Bucky. The first thing he does is focus on Bucky’s missing arm. “So that’s the arm, huh?”

Tony hisses, “ _Dad_.”

Bucky chuckles, “It’s not really an arm anymore; turns out they don’t grow back.”

Howard throws his head back and laughs. “I like you,” Howard says. “Listen, if you ever find yourself wanting an arm, I am more than willing to—”

“No,” Tony interjects. “You’re not doing anything—”

“—build you an arm.” Howard finishes and glares at his son. “I am capable—”

“ _No_.” Tony tightens his grip on Bucky. “We just got him back. You’re not touching him.”

“James,” Howard says, “would you like two arms?”

“Uh, well, I guess having two is better than having one.” As he says this, Howard looks at Tony as if to say ‘I told you so’. “I already have a prosthetic, though.”

“That isn’t what I meant,” Howard grins. “It would mean an operation and a few weeks of recovery afterward, but I can install a fully functional robotic arm that would work exactly like a flesh arm—”

“ _Okay_ , we’re walking away now,” Tony brings Bucky to the elevators just as Steve and Peggy reach them. “Steve, tell James he isn’t allowed a robotic arm.”

“Howard?” Peggy asks with a giggle.

“You’re not getting one of those,” Steve says vehemently.

The elevator dings and the doors open. “Oh, James,” Tony says as they get on, “I have to reschedule our talk. Turns out Thor Asgard has a lot more to talk about.”

“Didn’t he leave?” Steve asks.

“Yes but he’s coming back. He’s bringing his sister,” Tony groans. “If there is anyone I hate more than Thor, it’s Hela.”

“At least it’s not Loki,” Steve snorts and this makes Tony groan even more.

“Don’t even joke about that.”

“Um, that’s fine,” Bucky says. “I don’t mind coming out to Manhattan. I like it.”

“Great!” Tony says happily.

They all make small talk until the elevator gets to the lobby and they all exit. Peggy and Tony walk ahead of Bucky and Steve, who tag behind.

Bucky reaches into his pocket, pushing aside Steve’s business card and retrieving a scrap of paper with his phone number on it. He hands it to Steve. “If-if I don’t—if I’m too afraid to call you.”

“You don’t need to be afraid,” Steve says in a low voice. “I want you to.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Bucky.” Steve grabs his arm, “I want you in my life.”

Bucky nods, “I want you, too.”

“Winter!” Tony shouts across the lobby. Somehow he and Peggy are already at the front doors. “I’m calling you a car.”

“What?” Bucky frowns. “I’m taking the bus.”

“No offence, but no. Buses are gross,” Tony grimaces. “You’ll use one of the Stark cars.”

Bucky looks to Steve for help but he’s only laughing. Tony calls two cars; one for Bucky and the other for Steve and Peggy. They say their farewells and Tony hands Bucky a piece of paper from his pocket with his home phone number, as well as Steve’s. Bucky gets in the Jaguar and watches as Stark Industries fades in the distance.

Steve’s drawing replaces the business card in Bucky’s pocket.

***

He almost kissed Bucky in his office. He’d seen the way Bucky’s eyes flitted down to his lips and every nerve in Steve’s body had wanted Bucky to kiss him. Steve wanted to lean over the fallen papers and taste what he’s been missing for 11 years. Part of him wanted to feel Bucky’s long hair around his fingers; feel the rough scruff against his skin and relish in the marks it leaves.  

Steve is forever thankful for Tony walking in. He shouldn’t have lost his composure like that. If he can’t be in a room with Bucky alone for ten minutes without wanting to do something like _that_ , then he can never let them be alone. He can’t let himself falter like that; not with Peggy standing just outside the door.

“Meeting James was nice,” Peggy touches his thigh gently. Steve blinks and looks to her; they’re sitting in the car Tony called for them. They’re almost in Ossining. “He is nice,” she continues. “Why was he there?”

“Tony asked him to come, but then the meeting with Thor happened so Tony couldn’t meet with Bucky like he’d wanted to,” Steve says. “I’m not entirely sure why Tony wanted to talk to him.” He did have a feeling it wasn’t just to catch up.

“I am surprised Thor reached out to you all,” Peggy says. “With his father’s death and with how much Howard has been talking about it, I assumed things were going to be worse than they were when Odin was alive.”

Steve agrees with her, he didn’t know Thor as well as Tony does or Howard, but he thought the son of Odin would be a perfect picture of his father. “He is a lot kinder,” Steve sighs, “and he wants to become close friends. He’s tired of cleaning up what Odin left him in regards to the rivalry between us and them.”

“And Hela is fine with that?”

“No,” Steve goes on, “that is why Thor came alone. He wanted to hear what Howard and Tony had to say on the matter. They’re both willing to let things in the past stay in the past. When Thor left, it was to go get Hela so he, Howard and Tony could persuade her to accept the peace treaty.”

“I hope she does, it would be nice to have dinner without you all talking about it,” Peggy laughs. “Was it okay that you left before Thor and Hela returned?”

“Yes, Tony had wanted me there to show Thor some of the things we’ve been working on – as a way to show we are willing. I left my portfolio in my office so Tony can show Hela if he wants to,” Steve rests his head back against the headrest. Peggy’s hand is rubbing his thigh mindlessly and he is reminded of what happened in his office over an hour ago. Carefully, he places his hand over hers and she entwines their fingers. Peggy leans on him and he closes his eyes. This is the life he wants.

“Mr. Rogers, we have arrived,” says the driver. The driver, Luke, gets out and opens the door for Peggy and Steve simples slides out of the same door. “Should I wait here for your dinner to be over?” asks Luke.

“No of course not,” Steve frowns, “go get some dinner, go relax. You deserve it.”

Luke smiles politely, “Thank you, Mr. Rogers.”

Steve slides his arm around Peggy and they walk up the front steps of Michael Carter’s house. The house is Victorian styled, the porch is made from a dark wood and the front door is a screen painted white. Michael’s house is larger than Steve and Peggy’s, but Michael has already started his family.

The door swings open and a small blonde toddler runs out, her arms outstretched. Steve immediately crouches and picks her up, letting her arms wrap around his neck. “There’s my favourite girl,” Steve kisses her chubby cheeks, “how are you, sweetheart?”

“She’s excited for her birthday cake,” says Amanda, Michael’s wife. She’s a beautiful woman with long blonde hair and hazel eyes. “And she’s been talking all morning about how much she wants to see her Uncle Steve.” The toddler shoves her face in Steve’s neck.

“And I have been talking all day about how I want to see my little Sharon,” he tickles her with his free hand and she erupts into a fit of giggles.

Peggy rubs Sharon’s back, “She’s getting so big.”

“Pegs, we saw her two weeks ago,” Steve reminds her as they all walk into the house. The first thing Steve notices in the house is the smell of a roasting chicken and vegetables. “It smells good in here, Amanda.”

“Thank you,” Amanda grins, “Misty and I have been working all day on it. Misty made her mother’s buttercream icing recipe,” she says as they walk through the foyer and into the sitting room. Michael is sitting on one of plush couches drinking an amber coloured liquid in a cup. Steve places Sharon down who runs to her father excitedly.

“How are you doing, Steve?” Michael asks after putting his drink down and lifting Sharon onto his lap.

“Not bad,” Steve laughs and sits down on one of the other chairs in the room. “Works been good. How are you?”

“I’m excellent,” Michael starts bouncing Sharon on his knee slightly. “I actually have something I want to show you,” he stands and hands his daughter to his wife, before motioning for Steve to follow him. Steve does so and is lead through the house to the backyard. Outside in the spacious yard, sits a pile of wood. “It’s a doghouse,” Michael puts his hands on his hips, “our neighbours are taking care of the dog until this evening.”

“Wow,” Steve whistles, “that’s great.”

“Yeah, and you’re going to help me,” Michael smacks Steve’s chest and heads over to the shed across the yard. Steve blinks and takes off his suit coat, then rolls the sleeves of his white long-sleeve. Steve starts separating the different pieces of the doghouse as Michael returns with a can of nails and two hammers. “Peggy was telling me an old war buddy of yours is back,” Michael crouches down beside Steve and helps him separate the pieces. “James?”

“Yeah,” Steve takes one of the hammers. “James Barnes.”

“You’d told me about him,” Michael says, “the one who lost his arm and died. I couldn’t believe Peggy when she told me he was alive. I still remember how hard it was for you tell me who he was, let alone that he was dead.”

The night of Steve’s twenty-third birthday, he and Michael were both far too intoxicated and fell asleep in the basement of his and Tony’s house. He awoke to Michael shaking him with a terrified expression on his face and saying, “Who is Bucky?” Steve had had a nightmare involving Bucky’s death and had started screaming in his sleep. It took Michael having to go upstairs to get Tony for Steve to say who Bucky was.

Steve sighs heavily, “Yeah, that’s him. I saw him today, actually.”

“It’s a miracle he’s alive,” Michael begins hammering some of the pieces together. “The Russians are good for one thing, I guess.” He snorts and starts handing Michael nails. “Amanda didn’t think the dog was a good idea. She said we already have too much on our plate to take care of a puppy. I’ve got work and my business trips, she has Sharon to take care of _and_ we’re expecting, so—”

“Shit. Really?” Steve smiles. “That’s amazing. Congratulations, Mike.”

“Thanks, mate,” Michael beams. “We’ve known for about three weeks. The baby will be here in May sometime. Obviously we don’t know the sex yet, but I have a feeling it’ll be a boy.”

“That’ll be swell,” Steve hands Michael another nail.

Michael holds it between his fingers and looks at Steve, “Are you and Peggy trying?”

“Um,” Steve fiddles with the can of nails, “yes.”

“No luck?” Michael hammers some more. “It is hard, I’ll admit that. Amanda and I had been trying for two years before we got lucky with Sharon. It can be really discouraging but I know you and Pegs will get your chance soon.”

Steve doesn’t reply. He quietly hands Michael nails and lets Michael ramble about whatever part of the doghouse he’s building at the moment. They continue this for about two hours and the September sun beats down on them. Steve takes off his shirt, leaving him in his undershirt. Michael doesn’t say anything, but he keeps looking over at Steve’s muscles and keeps pushing himself harder to get the doghouse done.

He doesn’t pride himself in how fit he is. Exercising is a habit he picked up after the war. It distracted him from the nightmares that bubbled out when he was awake and the phantom bombs exploding near him. Stark Industries has a gym reserved specifically for the Executives and he uses it religiously. Sometimes Tony joins him but for the most part it gives him privacy he doesn’t get otherwise.

“Here you boys go,” Peggy walks across the yard with a tray of lemonade. Steve stands, kissing Peggy’s cheek and taking a glass. “Dinner is almost ready; come wash up.”

Steve glances over to Michael who is just finishing the roof and sighs, “We’ve still a way to go—”

“Go in Steve,” Michael says with a laugh embedded in his throat. “I’m almost done and besides, the only thing you’re making those muscles do is hand me nails.”

Insecurity bubbles slightly in Steve but he chuckles and drinks his lemonade. Ice clinks against his teeth and he swallows then follows Peggy inside. Amanda is setting their table and Steve can hear Sharon giggling in a separate room. When Amanda sees him wearing only his undershirt, she tells him to go upstairs and take one of Michael’s. As he goes up, he sees Sharon playing with Misty—the Carter’s housekeeper and nanny.

Misty notices Steve and a smile she had been wearing vanishes, standing she nods her head, “Can I help you, Mr. Rogers?”

“No,” Steve says, “I was heading upstairs and heard Sharon.” Misty looks down to the two-year-old playing with a stuffed rabbit. “Thank you for what you do,” Steve swallows awkwardly and Misty blinks in confusion. “I-I don’t know if you hear that enough. Thank you for caring about Sharon.”

Misty is strained, “It’s my job.”

He laughs nervously, “I-I know,” he steps closer and lowers his voice as sounds of Michael entering the house. “Let me know if… anything happens, okay?” Misty’s eyes flicker to the dining room and kitchen—Michael’s voice is growing louder. “You know—”

“Sam,” Misty says barely over a whisper, “I live in the same neighbourhood as his mother. You’re good to him.”

“He’s one of my best friends.” Steve moves closer so no one can hear him but Misty. “If _anything_ happens, Misty, you have a place at my house.”

“M-Mr. Rogers, I cannot do that. If Mr. Carter knew—”

Steve’s heart clenches. Michael is one of his closest friends. He has seen Steve at his worst moments, but Michael’s opinion on African Americans is not a good one. Michael is mean and often lets foul words directed to the help. One night, Steve was at work late and his phone rang—it was Sam, his best friend and groundskeeper, apparently Misty had called him in a fit of tears. Michael had hit her and had tried to do unspeakable _things_. There wasn’t anything Steve could do at the time, he and Peggy weren’t married yet and while they were friends it would be overstepping. Now, Steve could do something.  

“I wouldn’t care if he knew,” Steve says firmly. “It’s my house.”

Misty shakes her head and goes back to Sharon who is making the rabbit hop. “I appreciate the offer, Mr. Rogers, but,” she stops and quickly tries to wipe away a fallen tear on her cheek. “I cannot do that.”

“Why—”

“Steve?” Michael enters the room, looking strangely between Steve and Misty. “What’s going on?”

“I was asking why Sharon is so cute,” Steve lies through his teeth. Michael smiles brightly and goes past Misty to pick up his daughter. “Any child you and Amanda have are going to be adorable.”

“Careful Rogers, if you keep talking I’ll start to think you’re sweet on me,” Michael smiles but there’s something hiding in it. Steve swallows uncomfortably and chuckles along with him. Michael heads towards the dining room and Steve starts up the stairs to grab a shirt, when Michael clicks his tongue; catching his attention. Steve looks back at his brother-in-law, his stare is hard and cold. “What were you and Misty talking about?”

“I wouldn’t say we were talking, I was just saying how cute Sharon is—”

“Don’t bullshit me, Steve, I am not an idiot,” Michael growls. “Were you talking about me?”

“No?” Steve places his hand on the stair bannister. “And stop swearing, your holding your daughter for God’s sake.”

“You’re telling me how to parent?” Michael scoffs loudly. “When you and your precious _Bucky_ have a child, let me know.”

A shiver runs up Steve’s spine and he feels like he was just plunged into a freezing lake. He wets his lips, “What are you talking about?”

“You think I didn’t put two and two together that night at Tony’s?” Michael grins and pats Sharon on the back. “Never talk to my,” he uses a word that makes Steve flinch, “again. She’s mine and that’s none of your business. And if you make it your business, well my sister will have to know about your colourful past—and you really don’t want her to know, do you?”

Michael stalks down the hallway; Sharon looks over his shoulder then uses her hand to try and grab at Steve. Gulping heavily, Steve walks up the stairs and into the master bedroom. He grabs a white shirt from Michael’s closet and throws it on; fingering the buttons as if his brain has stopped working. Michael knows about Bucky—but how much does he know? To what extent does he think their relationship went? If Michael ever told Peggy, he would have no proof. Only memories of a night five years ago that is muddled by excessive drinking.

He fixes the buttons and heads downstairs; cutlery clinks against fine china and Steve deduces they’re already eating. When he walks in, Peggy has a free seat beside her and she’s already put food on his plate. He sits, eyes flicking up to Michael who is staring at him intensely as if daring him to say something.

Steve doesn’t talk much during dinner—he answers questions and laughs when a joke is told, but he tries to not draw attention to himself. His insides are a mess and he keeps visualizing Peggy’s face when Michael tells her about Bucky. He thought he could trust Michael—they were _friends_ but apparently that didn’t matter to Michael.

“Darling,” Peggy whispers softly in his ear as the dinner progresses. “Are you alright? You look a bit pale?”

“I’m just a bit tired.” He forces a smile. “I didn’t realise how draining that meeting with Thor was.”

“Thor?” Michael hears and Steve unintentionally tenses at his brother-in-law’s voice. Peggy notices and frowns, she touches his arm soothingly, eyes sparkling with worry. “Isn’t he the CEO of Asgard now?”

“Yes,” Steve replies.

“Why didn’t his sister get the job?” Michael wonders. “Or the other brother.”

“Odin apparently signed the company over to Thor before his death, so Hela had no right to it.” Steve says. “And Loki isn’t their brother. Tony told me that Odin and Frigga took care of Loki for a while after his father’s death but he left a while after he was sixteen.”

“He’s in the newspapers, though,” Amanda says as she feeds Sharon a spoonful of mashed potatoes. “A lot.”

“Loki’s father left him millions,” Steve says, “he likes to spend it and buy businesses.”

“I think he’s a poof,” Michael says with a mouthful of chicken. “You see the way he dresses?”

“ _Michael_ ,” Amanda giggles. “He isn’t a homosexual.”

“In Britain, we used to kick the poofs down the street. One lived next to me, his name was Timothy—liked ballet. Took a spill one day and was in the hospital for a week.” Michael places his fork and knife down. “Would be a shame if the same happened to Loki.”

“Michael,” Peggy says sternly; devoid of the giggles Amanda had. “This isn’t appropriate talk for your daughter’s birthday.”

“Come on, Pegs, I’m joking,” Michael laughs but Steve’s stomach twists anxiously. “Besides, it’s all out of concern. Homosexuals aren’t right in the head. They think having sex with men is normal. They should all be put in a mental asylum to get right. You know, I think Hitler did have one thing right,” this makes the whole room go cold. Amanda’s face drains of colour and Peggy’s face turns a shade of red in anger. “He sent the homosexuals into the concentration camps, didn’t he? That’s where they should be. What do you think, Steve?”

Steve breathes in heavily. “I think imprisoning anyone for who they are is wrong. Jewish, Homosexual, Gypsy, Jehovah’s Witness; no one deserves to be put in that Hell.”

Michael’s jaw was set tight, “So you think homosexuals should just be allowed to walk around and brainwash others to become homosexuals, too?”

“I don’t think that’s what homosexuals do, Michael,” Peggy intercepts. “They want to love just like anyone else. They all live in hiding because of ignorant stereotypes that you are perpetuating. They are different, that is all. There is nothing wrong with different.”

A glint shines in Michael’s eye and he picks up his glass with the amber liquid. He downs the drink and slams it down on the dining room table; making Amanda jump. He uses his hand to catch Misty’s attention and she comes over with the decanter of what looks like rum. She pours it into the glass while Michael looks at her face appreciatively, completely disregarding that his wife is sitting there with their child. When Steve looks to Amanda, she is pointedly paying attention to Sharon.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough?” Peggy asks as Misty walks away and Michael drinks almost half the glass.  

“Come on, Pegs, it’s a party,” Michael slurs slightly.

“For your two-year-old who you haven’t even looked at since we sat down for dinner!” Peggy folds her arms across her chest. “You are being ridiculously disrespectful.”

“I am not—”

They all hear the front door to the Carter house open at the exact same time and hear the tell-tale sounds of nails scraping against hardwood floors. Without warning, a golden retriever bolts into the room with its tongue lolling out of its mouth excitedly. Amanda cries out in shock and Michael swears louder than Steve has ever heard. The room descends into chaos as Amanda leaps up and out of the room crying, Peggy runs after her in confusion at the sudden outburst of sobs, while Michael gets up to tame the dog that has since run into another part of the house.

Steve remains sitting; he has no energy to put up with something like this. He looks to Sharon, who is sucking her spoon into her mouth quietly. He gets up and goes to her, lifting her up out of her highchair and holds her.

“What do you want to name your puppy?” he asks the toddler as a distraction when Amanda’s shrill screaming erupts elsewhere. “How about—”

“Bucky!” Sharon says as she pulls the spoon from her mouth. “Bucky!”

Steve blinks, she must have heard Michael when he said the name before dinner. Swallowing heavily he says, “N-No, you can’t name him that.”

“Bucky!” Sharon repeats, this time louder. “Doggy Bucky.”

“Sharon,” he tries, “how about Goldie? Or Max?”

“Bucky!” Sharon almost screams and Steve shushes her quickly before anyone hears her.

“O-Okay, sweetheart, you can name him whatever you want,” Steve kisses her forehead as dread washes over him; having Bucky in his life is going to be far more complicated than he thought. How is he going to keep Michael from saying anything when the man can obviously no longer hold his liquor? A part of him aches from the loss of friendship. Michael has always been good to him. Hell, Michael is the person who introduced Steve to Peggy.

Why would he want to ruin their marriage?

Amanda screams again and they’re followed by Michael shouting; glass breaks wherever they are. It is then that Steve realises: they’re unhappy and he isn’t.

Michael cannot change that no matter how hard he tries.

***

 _SIN_.

The sign is neon red and stands out amongst the rest of the busy street. No one pays it any attention except those that are actively looking for it—including Bucky. He shoves his hand in his pocket nervously and looks over his shoulder; he shouldn’t be going in here. From the folks that are going in and out of the shady bar, he can figure out what kind of place this is.

He turns towards it and down the grimy steps to the door. It’s a basement bar; or maybe it’s not. Maybe it uses the house upstairs as a place for the bargoers to go when they’re done drinking. Bucky has seen his fair share of brothels and this place screams it. As he steps on the last step, the metal front door is thrown open and a man wearing a wig stumbles out. He has lipstick smeared across his lips and smiles immediately when he sees Bucky.

“Be careful, you,” the man touches his arm softly, “they’ll tear you apart in there.”

“Um,” Bucky blinks, “thank you.” The man leans over and kisses Bucky’s cheek before going up the stairs. Bucky touches where the man’s lips had been before opening the door.

Before even stepping over the threshold, Bucky could smell smoke and sweat. Music plays so loudly Bucky can barely hear his own thoughts. He squints his eyes in the darkness and slips through the thick crowd. Men’s bodies bump into him as he goes, some try to grab at him and Bucky slinks away. Finally, he reaches the bar and breathes a sigh of relief.

“Nat,” he pants as he sits. Natasha is standing behind the bar; her hair is tied back and she’s smirking at him. “Why did you want me to come here?”

“What is so wrong about a wife wanting her husband to see where she works?” Natasha is still smirking.

“Not when it’s a,” Bucky gulps, “a queer bar.” Natasha throws her head back and laughs. “It’s not funny, Nat, a man kissed my cheek outside! He was wearing lipstick!” This makes her laugh harder. “Natasha!”

She wipes a tear from her eye. “I’m sorry but it is kind of hilarious.”

“It’s not.”

“It is,” she retorts. “Anyway, I wanted you to see where I work. You thought it was unsafe for me to work here because it was a bar and I had to work at night. But look,” Natasha motions to the dancing crowd, “they don’t care about me. If anything, if someone tried something they’d help me. It is safe here and it pays well.”

“I still don’t like it,” Bucky grumbles. Natasha raises an eyebrow and pours him a glass of gin and tonic. He takes it wordlessly and drinks some of it while Natasha goes to help a customer. He peers around _SIN_ and sees there are a few women here, too, though definitely not as many as there are men. Most of the women are huddled around at the tables talking amongst each other and a few are kissing.

Bucky averts his gaze; he feels like he’s watching he shouldn’t be.

“How was Tony?” Natasha asks when she returns.

“G-Good,” Bucky begins, “he had a big meeting today with some business partner so he couldn’t talk to me. Steve said it was planned at the last minute.” At his use of Steve’s name, Natasha frowns. “It was _fine_ , Nat. I saw Steve and we talked. He made me tell him why I hadn’t called and he wasn’t mad at me or upset. He… understood, I think. He said he wanted me in his life.” Natasha continues frowning. “And I met his wife.”

“You did?”

“Yeah, Peggy, she’s real nice. British. Beautiful.” Bucky swallows. “Perfect.”

The song changes and the crowd hollers when they realise what song it is. Bucky has no idea. He has found it hard to catch up with the American songs playing on the radio. They didn’t have an American radio in Moscow.

“She hugged me and said she wants us to have dinner with her and Steve.” Bucky says and Natasha blinks in disbelief. “She also thanked me. I don’t know why or if I deserve her thanks.” Natasha pours some vodka into a shot glass and hands it to a customer before she leans against the sticky counter.

“I would like to meet them,” Natasha says. “But I want to know what Steve means by wanting you in his life. Does he mean _wanting_ you or wanting you?”

Bucky stares. “You just said the exact same thing twice.”

“Does he want you like he did in the war?” Natasha clarifies as quiet as the music would allow her.

“I-I don’t think so,” Bucky says but he’s lying. He and Steve had a moment in the office before Tony barged in. Bucky doesn’t know what would have happened if Tony hadn’t entered the room when he did.  

“You’re a fucking liar,” Natasha hisses at him before smacking him across the head. “What happened?”

“Nothing!” Bucky laughs. “We just… almost kissed, I think.”

“James Barnes!” Natasha hits his head again. “You are the biggest idiot in the world.”

“Ow, stop hitting me!” he says through laughs as she smacks him again.

“Lover’s quarrel?” a voice cuts through the music in the crowd. Bucky turns to his left and finds a slender well-dressed man with slicked back black hair and a smirk on his lips. “Is this your husband, then, Natasha?”

“Unfortunately,” Natasha drawls. “James this is my boss, Loki Jotunheim.” The name sounds familiar but Bucky cannot place where he’s heard it before. Instead of asking, he holds out his hand for Loki to shake.

“It is a pleasure, James,” Loki smiles. “Your wife is an excellent bartender, I must say.”

“Thanks…” Bucky says awkwardly. “Um, so, you own this place?”

“Yes.” Loki glances around the room. “I bought it several years ago but just recently put it to use. Do you like it?”

Bucky follows Loki’s eyes around the room and says, “Yeah. It’s nice.”

“He thought it was dangerous for me to work here,” Natasha cuts in; earning a glare from her husband.

Loki grins knowingly, “I understand your concern, James, but Natasha is completely safe here. I have security guards on the floor as we speak keeping an eye on things. If need be, I can handle things myself but I do think your wife is quite capable of taking care of herself.”

Bucky shrugs.

A customer calls for Natasha a bit of a ways away and she leaves Bucky with Loki. Loki sits in the chair next to Bucky and reaches over the counter to pour himself some vodka straight. Bucky sits awkwardly. He doesn’t know what to say to Loki or if he should say anything at all. The man carries himself like he owns the world; he probably has the money to do that, Bucky thinks.

“Does it make you uncomfortable being here?” Loki asks out of nowhere.

“No,” Bucky says, “not at all.” Loki only hums in response, like he doesn’t believe Bucky. “I-I don’t really care what other people get up to. Least of all queers.” This makes Loki smirk. “In the war, everyone kind of turned a blind eye to the queers so I’m used to it.”

“The war?” Loki questions. “Is that where you lost your arm?”

“Yup.”

“How tragic.” Loki drinks. “I wasn’t in the war myself, but tragedy did hit our shores as well.”

“Where are you from?” Bucky asks. He can’t place Loki’s accent. It sounds British but other times there is something else.

“Norway,” Loki says, “ _but_ I went to school in London per my father’s request, hence my accent. And you?”

“Brooklyn,” Bucky answers. He doesn’t say that Brooklyn was only a small part of his life before he moved to Hamilton with his mother, sister and step-father—and then Queens after he ran away. Brooklyn is easier. “And Moscow.”

“Yes, Natasha has told me.” Loki drinks again. “You speak Russian, then?”

“I can but I’m not great at it,” Bucky says. “I can understand it better than I can speak it.”

Without even blinking Loki then spoke in fluent Russian, “ _I think you are sexy_.” Bucky’s cheeks flush red. Loki laughs and switches back to English, “There’s no need to be embarrassed, James. You _are_ in a queer bar.”

“How do you know Russian?” Bucky asks him, trying to ignore Loki’s appreciative eyes and failing miserably.

Loki shrugs non-committedly then winks. “I get around,” he says.

Natasha returns and Bucky has never been more thankful. She refills his gin and tonic, then speaks to Loki about the inventory. Loki looks bored but he doesn’t ignore her. Bucky grips the condensation covered glass nervously, his stomach still flipping from Loki’s compliment. Loki is an attractive man and he doesn’t seem afraid to be himself. Bucky has never seen a man so comfortable with being queer. He’s jealous.

He wants to ask Loki how he manages to run this place without being arrested or shut down but Loki’s attention is taken from someone across the bar. Bucky looks and a tall blond man entering from the back entrance. This man, too, is very familiar. Loki gets up without a word to Natasha or Bucky and crosses the room to the man. When he reaches the blond, his arms come up around his neck and Bucky sees Loki’s fingers playing with the nap of the man’s neck.

“Who is that?” Bucky asks Natasha.

She follows to where Bucky is pointing and chuckles, “Loki’s lover. He comes in every so often to see Loki.”

“What’s his name?” Bucky asks, still watching the pair across the bar.

“Why are you so curious?” Natasha wonders.

 “I just… I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before,” Bucky mumbles. The blond man hesitantly puts his arms around Loki’s middle as Loki whispers in his ear. Whatever Loki said makes the blond man laugh. God, he is so familiar.

“His name is Thor,” Natasha says and Bucky’s head whips around to her. “He and Loki have known each other since they were kids.”

“Thor?!” Bucky hisses. “I know him. I-I mean I don’t _know_ him but I’ve seen him before.”

“Probably,” Natasha shrugs. “His father used to run Asgard Industries before his death. Now Thor does. You probably saw him on the newspaper.”

“ _No_.” Bucky leans across the counter so no one hears him. “I saw him today at Stark Industries when I went to see Tony and Steve. He saw me, too.” Bucky looks back to Loki and Thor, to find Thor looking at him from across the bar. His face is twisted up in confusion and Bucky can pinpoint the exact moment he realises where he has seen Bucky before. Quickly, Thor whispers something in Loki’s ear, making Loki look over.

His stomach flips and this time it’s not from Loki’s flirting. Bucky thinks Loki is going to cross the room and fire Natasha on the spot to protect Thor’s secret but instead, Loki grabs Thor and kisses him. A few sporadic cheers rise around them and Bucky sees Thor tense, but relax into it. The way Loki is kissing Thor is obscene and when Loki finally pulls away, Thor’s face is a deep shade of red. Bucky watches as Loki leads Thor out of the room, whispering as he does, and up the stairs to where Bucky thought was the brothel.

He turns to talk to Natasha but see she’s gone back down to the other end of the bar. She’s talking to a man who looks to be a few years older than them, maybe Tony’s age, and she is laughing; tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. The man looks like he’s wearing a security guard uniform, possibly one of the guards Loki was talking about. As he stares at the security guard, he realises he knows him too.

“Clint?” Bucky frowns and stands up. He walks down the bar and Natasha sees him, she is about the question why he came over when Bucky grabs the man’s shoulder. The man looks at him in confusion as Bucky says, “Clint Barton?”

“Yes?” the man’s eyes are on Bucky’s lips. He’s reading them.

“I-It’s me, James Barnes.” Bucky says and this makes Clint’s face screw up in confusion. “Winter. From the army.”

“You’re dead,” Clint shakes his head. “You died.”

“I didn’t.” Bucky bites the inside of his cheek. “I’m alive—” Clint grabs at him, hugging him as tight as he can. Over Clint’s shoulder, Natasha is staring at them in disbelief.

“Does Steve know you’re alive?” Clint pulls back slightly to ask.

“Yes, I actually saw him today.”

“Good,” Clint nods, “the poor kid was devasted when you died. Never seen someone so depressed.” Clint looks back to Natasha and then at Bucky again, “Here, let’s go to the staff room. It’ll be easier to talk.” Natasha lifts the bar counter up allowing Clint to lead Bucky behind it and threw a swinging door. She follows them, her face still drawn in confusion.

The staff room is clean and significantly quieter than the bar itself. Bucky sits at a table and Clint sits across from him, while Natasha gives them both glasses of water. In the brighter lights of the staff room, Bucky sees Clint has a sheen of sweat on his face – probably from the heat of being amongst the dancing bodies in the bar. There is a scar running down his face from the bottom of his left eye to his chin. An injury that must have happened after Bucky left.

“You two were in the army together?” Natasha makes sure she is standing near Bucky so Clint can see her speaking. “I didn’t know that.”

“You two know each other?” Clint frowns.

“We’re married,” Natasha holds up her left hand showing her wedding ring as Bucky pulls a chain from under his shirt that has his wedding ring looped through it.

“No way,” Clint’s eyes are wide. “What a small world, eh? God, I can’t believe you’re alive. Your death really fucked us all up. None of us were the same after that. And man, poor Wilson, he filled your place and had to deal with all of us constantly mourning and snapping at him for asking questions.” Bucky doesn’t know who Wilson is and he doesn’t ask. “Steve had it the worst though, definitely. Never saw someone so distraught.”

“How is Laura?” Bucky hopes neither Natasha nor Clint notice how fast he changes the subject from Steve.

“Uh, good,” Clint bites his lip, “we’ve got three kids now. Cooper, Lila and Nathaniel.”

“Wow,” Bucky whistles, “that’s great.”

During the war, the only person Clint ever received letters from was Laura. Bucky had heard from Peter that Clint and Laura married right before he was shipped off. At the time, they didn’t have children yet but Bucky is glad they found their happily ever after with their children.

“Yeah,” Clint nods and looks up at Natasha thoughtfully. “I didn’t know you were married. You have kids?”

“No,” Natasha laughs shyly which makes Bucky look at her strangely. “We live with my younger brother and sister, though.” This seems to please Clint, he leans back in his chair and a strange smile raises on his face. Bucky shifts uncomfortably.

He clears his throat, “So, um, why are you working here?”

“Well, I was working the security detail for a Stark party back in ‘53, and Loki happened to be in attendance. He liked the way I was dealing with things and offered me more than the Stark’s were paying me. I’m actually his body guard but when we’re here, he likes to be left alone and he’s safe here so I let him do his own things,” Clint explains.

“You worked for Tony?” Bucky asks.

“Yeah, I think we all did after the war,” Clint tells him. “Steve was the first to be hired out of the war—but he lived with Tony so it didn’t come as much of a surprise. Banner was next; he works in the hospital that the Stark’s own. Lang works for Stark, too, but mainly under the eye of Hank Pym—who happens to be his father-in-law now. Strange, I think, is the only one who doesn’t work for Stark but he is a surgeon so he’s still making good money.”

 “What about Rhodes?”

Clint snorts, “Yeah, he works for Tony – as his butler. It’s hard for Black people to get legitimate jobs so Tony hired him as the help. Steve did the same thing for Wilson once he had his own place and was financially stable. Though, I guess if Howard Stark is your adopted daddy you’re stable enough.” Bucky couldn’t help but feel that was a jab at both Steve and Howard. “We’re all doing good for ourselves. Stark had a hand in that.”

“I want to meet this Tony,” Natasha says. “Maybe when we go for dinner with Steve and Peggy, Steve can invite Tony too.” Bucky shrugs.

The door opens and Loki enters, “Barton, we’re leaving.”

Clint sighs, “Where to?”

“You aren’t my driver, I don’t need to tell you where I am going. You are my bodyguard, you go where I go,” Loki snaps. “Now come on.” Clint stands and waves goodbye to the married pair before leaving the room. Loki lingers, a smirk rises and he speaks to Natasha. “May I speak with your husband for a moment?” Natasha doesn’t move. “Preferably alone, Natasha.”

Frowning, Natasha left the room and went back into the bar. Sound filtered in for a moment before it went all but quiet. Loki sits down in the seat Clint had been in and he places both hands atop the table.

“James,” Loki says, “it has come to my attention you are in acquaintance with Tony Stark and Steve Rogers. Is that right?”

Oh.

“Uh, yes,” Bucky says, “S-Steve is my childhood best friend and Tony was my captain in the army.”

Loki nods. “Then, you must know that the man I was with is Thor Asgard—the new CEO of Asgard Industries; Stark Industries business rival.”

He gulps, “Um, well, I only learned that today. I didn’t even know who he was when I saw him.” Loki wets his lips and stands, circling the table to come closer to Bucky. He is so close Bucky can smell his cologne. It’s expensive.

“I would appreciate it if you never tell Steve or Tony what you saw here tonight.” Loki looks down at him. “Thor’s personal life has nothing to do with his business.”

“I’m not going to say anything,” Bucky says earnestly. “It isn’t mine or anyone else’s business.”

“You’re right, it’s not,” Loki says with a smirk. “Could you stand for a moment, James?” Slowly, Bucky rises from his seat. He and Loki are standing very close to each other. Loki’s hand reaches up to touch Bucky’s right bicep and his eyes are fixed to Bucky’s. “Thor and I have been together for a long time. We have been careful to protect our relationship from prying eyes. _SIN_ is the only place we can be together without controversy. This business is protected by the people who come and go; and by money, of course. A lot of money.”

“Why are you telling—”

“ _Let_ me finish,” Loki says firmly and Bucky feels his insides contract. “The most important thing that protects _SIN_ , is the collateral—the secrets that are kept to protect it. I know many secrets of the people who frequent my bar and of those who work here. They know that if they were to ever say anything about me, Thor or my businesses, I would reveal their secrets to those needed.”

“That’s blackmailing,” Bucky says quietly.

Loki smirks, “No, honey, that’s business.” Loki’s hand creeps up and rests on his right shoulder. Bucky shivers at the touch. “I know your secret, James Barnes.”

“What’s that?” Bucky shivers as Loki’s thumb brushes underneath his jaw.

“I know you’re queer,” Loki whispers, “and I know that you and Natasha are not truly a couple; though it says so on paper.”

“How can you know that?” Bucky’s brow furrows, “Did Natasha—”

“No, she didn’t tell me. I told you, I _know_ things.” Loki comes impossibly closer. “I know you’re queer because since the moment you’ve met me, you haven’t been able to take your eyes off me. I saw the way you,” Loki’s fingers dance along Bucky’s neck, “blushed when I told you that I thought you were sexy. You weren’t put off by it. You might have even liked it.” Bucky blushes again. “You think I am attractive, don’t you?”

Bucky is silent.

“I thought so,” Loki smiles. “May I kiss you, James?”

“W-What?” Bucky asks breathily.

“Have you never kissed a man before?” Loki asks. “How cute.”

“No, I have,” Bucky corrects him. He has only ever kissed Steve. Suddenly, remembering Steve makes Bucky see Loki in a different light. Steve is married to Peggy, the perfect woman and Loki is… well Loki is queer and unmarried. “I have kissed men before,” Bucky says.

“Then,” Loki leans in, “may I?” Bucky’s heart aches and he feels tears prickle the sides of his eyes. All he can see is Steve’s face the first time they ever kissed. He wonders what Steve and Peggy’s first kiss was like.

Bucky closes his eyes and nods hesitantly. He can’t see, but he hears Loki breathe out quietly before a warmth falls over his lips. They’re kissing. Loki isn’t as unpractised as Steve was in 1944 but it isn’t obscene like Loki’s kiss with Thor was in the bar. The Norwegian man is gentle yet firm; he grabs Bucky’s arms and pulls his chest against his before his tongue touches Bucky’s lips. Bucky lets out a noise and suddenly, Loki’s tongue is in his mouth. Carefully, Bucky places his hand over the small of Loki’s back; which makes Loki moan softly into his mouth. The sound catches Bucky off-guard, it sounds too… unlike Steve. In his moment of clarity, Loki cups his jaw and bites his lip—and Bucky moans.

They make out like this for minutes; Loki pushes Bucky back until he feels the edge of the table against the back of his legs. At the movement, Bucky is gasping and pulling away. For a second, he begs that Steve will be there in front of him when he opens his eyes but when he does—he sees Loki wet his lips and smile, before his eyes meet Bucky’s.

“I have wanted to do that since I saw you sitting at the bar,” Loki whispers.

“You’re with Thor,” Bucky’s voice is scratchy.

“Yes, but we all have our urges.” Loki steps away and smooths down his suit. “You wanted me and I wanted you. It’s not that hard to understand. Life is too short to not do anything.” Clearing his throat, Loki heads towards the door, “Everything I do is to protect the man I love. Can I trust that you will never speak a word about Thor or of what we did tonight to Stark or Rogers.”

“N-No, I wouldn’t,” Bucky says. “I couldn’t tell them.”

“Do they not know?” Loki asks, his hand hovers over the swinging door.

Bucky glances away, “Steve does.”

There is a pause.

“But you won’t tell him?”

“No.”

“May I ask why?” Loki drops his hand to his side.

Bucky bites his lip. “Because we kissed and Steve c-can’t know that. He can’t.” Realisation falls over Loki and Bucky interrupts him before he can speak again. “It’s collateral. I won’t say anything as long as you won’t.” He looks away again. “Please.”

“You have my word,” Loki says and then like that he is gone.

The sounds of the bar pitter-patter in until the door stops swinging, leaving Bucky in the silence of the staff room. He sits on the chair and runs his fingers through his hair; tears pool in his eyes. Loki is the first person Bucky has kissed since Steve. Kissing Loki made Bucky realise two things.

One: Steve Rogers is the only man Bucky will ever love.

Two: Life is too short to not do anything.

***

The car rounds the corner onto their street and Steve finally feels himself falling asleep. The night has been long; the clock on the dash says it’s 12:56am, and their entire neighbourhood is encompassed in darkness. Despite the chaos that ensued during dinner, the rest of the night was seemingly calm. Everyone pointedly ignored the smudged mascara on Amanda’s face from her crying and Steve had to keep a hand on Peggy’s shoulder to keep her from yelling at her brother. Sharon enjoyed her new dog, Bucky – when she said the name in front of Michael and Peggy, only Michael seemed bothered by it; Peggy was otherwise oblivious.

Beside him, Peggy shifts and rests her head against his shoulder. She’s awake, he can tell, by the way she’s breathing and picking at her nails. It’s a bad habit, but he finds it endearing. Peggy sighs and shifts again.

“Honey,” Steve murmurs, “are you okay?”

“I do not understand what Michael’s problem was tonight,” she huffs softly. It is the first they’ve spoken of Michael’s attitude since leaving the Carter house. “It was his daughter’s _birthday_ and he was being…” she sucks in a deep breath, “an asshole.” She sits up and looks at him in the darkness. “Did you notice anything odd when you were building the doghouse? Did he say anything out of the ordinary?”

“No, not that I noticed,” and that’s the truth. Michael only started acting strangely after Steve had gone inside and was talking to Misty. Prior to that, Michael was his normal self.

“Hmm,” Peggy frowns. “I just do not understand what he was so angry about. And what was that about Loki? It came out of nowhere.”

“Well,” Steve begins, “Tony says he’s always had his suspicions—”

“Steven, this is nothing to gossip about,” she scolds. “This is a man’s life. His career. People cannot go around whispering about something like this. He could lose his credibility, his businesses. It isn’t right, even if it may or may not be true. It’s none of our business.” Steve folds in on himself and nods. She’s right. “Sorry,” she touches his arm, “I am so worked up about Michael.”

“We’ve arrived at your home,” Luke says after he opens the partition. Steve opens his door as Luke does the same so he can open Peggy’s door for her. “Goodnight Mr. Rogers, goodnight Mrs. Rogers.”

“Goodnight Luke,” both Steve and Peggy say in unison. The couple walk onto their porch and Steve unlocks the door. As he pushes it open, Luke is driving back down the driveway and will likely drive the Stark car home for the night.

The lights in their home are on when they enter. “Sam?” Steve calls out and straight down from the front door, past the dining room, Sam’s head pokes out from in the kitchen. “What are you still doing awake?” he asks.

“I knew you’d be home late and my mom made extra pie, so I thought you and Peggy might want some,” Sam says as Steve enters the kitchen. Sitting on the stove is Mrs. Wilson’s famous apple pie.

“Oh, tell your mom I love her,” Steve moans as he dives into the cutlery drawer to grab himself a fork.

“Believe me, she already knows,” Sam laughs. Then, “How was the party?” Steve shakes his head. “That bad?”

“It was awful,” Peggy comes into the room and takes Steve’s fork from him. “My brother, Michael, I don’t know where he got his attitude from but I wanted to hit him on the bottom like he was a child!”

“What did he do?” Sam asks.

“He’s ignorant,” Steve says simply. “That’s all.”

Sam raises his eyebrow at Steve, he’s expecting a more in-depth explanation when Peggy isn’t around. In the mornings, generally, Peggy sleeps in longer than Steve does and Sam is up before Steve. They’ll sit on the back porch; Steve with his coffee and Sam with a glass of orange juice. The pair will talk about their lives and problems they can’t seem to figure out on their own. It’s been this way since the war and Steve likes to think it’ll be this way until they’re old and can barely swallow their own food.

They get their chance to talk alone far sooner than Steve had thought. After her fifth bite of Mrs. Wilson’s pie, Peggy kisses his cheek and says, “I think I am going to head to bed. Do not stay up too late, Darling.” And she heads upstairs; Steve watches her figure as it goes through the dining room and through the foyer, to where she turns left and up the stairs to the second floor. Both he and Sam listen as the floorboards creak upstairs as Peggy goes from the master bedroom to the only bathroom on that floor.

“What did Michael do?” Sam asks once the sounds of the bathtub running begins over their heads. Steve groans and hangs his head in his hands over the island. “Steve, what did you do?”

“I talked to Misty,” Steve says quietly. “I told her she has a place here if Michael tries anything again.”

“You did _what_?” Sam fumes.

“Michael was outside finishing up the doghouse and Misty was in the sitting room with Sharon. She started crying, Sam, when I offered her a place here. She’s terrified of Michael.” Steve tells his friend. “Ever since that night I can’t stop thinking about what else he might try to do when Amanda isn’t looking. Hell, he was eying Misty up during dinner. Dinner, Sam, while his wife and child were sitting right there.” Sam swears and grabs the fork Peggy left on the counter before digging into his mother’s pie. “I had to say something.”

“So,” Sam says with a mouthful of pie, “you said something and what, Michael overheard you?”

“I don’t think he heard what I was saying. He just didn’t like that I was talking to her.” Steve shrugs. “He became really belligerent after that. Started saying really weird stuff, like Hitler was right—” Sam’s eyebrows shot up “about imprisoning homosexuals. Michael started talking about Loki Jotunheim and how back in England, Michael and his friends would attack the queers. He told this really strange anecdote about a dancer living in the house next to him having a fall and being in the hospital for a week.”

“Why in the Hell would he start talking about homosexuals?” Sam asks and Steve shrugs, pretending he doesn’t know. “Every time I’ve met the man, he doesn’t seem too vocal about his prejudices.”

“He had been drinking,” Steve says, “a fair bit, to be honest.”

“That shouldn’t be an excuse.”

“I know.”

Sam has more pie and looks at Steve carefully. Steve can tell Sam is trying to decipher what Steve isn’t telling him. It is like Sam said, he and Michael have met several times since Steve’s marriage to Peggy and Michael has never been this bad.

“So, he was mad about because you were talking to Misty?” Sam stretches out his words. “And that’s it? He didn’t say anything to you?” Steve shakes his head. “Come on, Steve, Michael is aware you’re the only white man who knows what he tried to do to Misty. He’s not going to let that slide. What did he say?” Fear tickles the underside of Steve’s stomach. It must show on his face. “Christ Steve, what did he say?”

“He talked about Bucky,” Steve says quietly. The shower is running upstairs but the heating vents carry sound surprisingly well. “He knows, Sam. He told me if I ever say anything about Misty to anyone, Peggy will find out about Bucky.”

Sam stops eating mid-chew, “How the fuck does he know?”

Steve shakes his head, “Mike says on the night of my 23rd birthday, I was talking in my sleep. I _know_ I had a nightmare about Bucky that night but Michael never said anything about what I was saying. That night, I only calmed down once Tony was in the room. Before that, I—” his voice cracks. “I must have said something.”  

“I’m so confused. What could you have possibly said to him?” Sam questions. “That you made some mistake when you were a teenager? He has no proof that anything went on. Just some night five years ago. It can’t be some fucked up idea of security o-or collateral.” Sam pushes the pie away and comes closer to Steve; his hand coming up and resting on Steve’s shoulder. “There is nothing he could say to Peggy that would make her believe him.”

Steve nods.

“I’m not the best at advice Steve, but you should lay low for a while,” warns Sam. “Don’t talk to Misty if you go back to the Carter house. Just… Avoid her. I think she’s safe right now and my mother would call if she noticed anything different about Misty.” Steve nods again. “As for James, you have nothing to worry about. He hasn’t called you and so maybe there’s nothing to worry about. Michael has nothing on you.”

Steve doesn’t point out that he saw Bucky today and that he almost kissed him in his office. Sam knows enough about his past with Bucky; he doesn’t want to add to that. The less people know the better.

“I’m going to go to bed, I think,” Sam smiles and claps Steve’s shoulder. “You better head to bed, too, before Peggy comes down and scolds you.”

With a laugh Steve bids Sam goodnight before Sam leaves through the backdoor. Sam has his own house on Steve and Peggy’s property—it used to be a barn but with some money and elbow grease, it doubles as a loft for Sam and a storage room. He wanted Sam to live comfortably—he still feels guilt everyday for having hired Sam but there was no other way. Jobs were limited and Sam was, still is, his best friend and he didn’t want anyone mistreating him.  

Now alone in the kitchen, Steve has a bite of the pie before moving it into the fridge. He sits down at the small table where Sam usually eats his meals and rests his chin against the palm of his hand. He is still fearful about Michael telling Peggy, though Sam is right about Michael having no solid proof. However, if Michael plants the thought in Peggy’s head, sooner or later she is going to ask about his and Bucky’s friendship. Or rather, relationship.

 _No_. Friendship; that is all they are. Friends. He is going to prove that to anyone who wants to see.

Reaching into his pocket, he finds the crumped paper Bucky handed to him in haste before they left Stark Industries. Written in what looks like chicken-scratch, is Bucky’s phone number. With a start, Steve crosses the kitchen to a small desk with a telephone sitting upon it. He grasps the smooth plastic of his phone and puts the number in, then waits for it to begin ringing. After the third ring, he catches sight of the small clock—it is 1:13 in the morning.

“Shit,” he mumbles just as there is a crackle in the ear piece.

A woman’s voice answers, “ _Hello_?”

“Um, hi, sorry for calling so late,” he says in a flurry of words. “Is James there?”

There is a long silence before the woman replies, “ _Hang on_.” Steve hears the phone being placed down on a hard surface and distant voices. They don’t sound like they’re speaking English.

“ _Hello_?” Bucky’s voice comes through quiet; apprehensive.

“Buck,” Steve smiles despite himself, “uh, it’s Steve. Did I wake you?”

“ _No, Nat and I just got home_ ,” Bucky says but he sounds exhausted. “ _Why are you calling so late? Is everything okay?”_

“Yeah, everything’s fine, I just,” Steve sighs, “I wanted to invite you and Natasha for dinner.”

“ _This late?_ ” Bucky asks and Steve can imagine a smile on his face.

Steve blushes, “Well, yeah, I guess.”

Bucky laughs, “ _Okay._ ”

“When are you and Natasha free for dinner?” Steve asks; he shoulders the phone and reaches for a pen to write with. “Pegs and I are free in the evenings most nights.”

“ _Um, well, Natasha works a lot and I don’t have a job yet. So, I’ll have to see her schedule,_ ” Bucky says. “ _Maybe she can talk to her boss and he can give her a night off._ ”

“Okay,” Steve says. “Could you let me know when she does?”

“ _Of course_ ,” Bucky replies and Steve can hear someone talking in the background. Whoever it is, Bucky shushes them as discreetly as he can. “ _Sorry,_ ” he says, “ _Natasha was just asking who I was talking to_.”

“Was it Natasha that answered the phone?” Steve asks, his finger uncharacteristically twirling around the phone cord.

“ _No, it was Wanda_ ,” Bucky tells him. “ _She was staying up until Nat and I got home._ ” Part of Steve wants to ask what Bucky and Natasha were doing out so late but he realises it’s none of his business. Maybe they were on a date. “ _Hey,_ ” Bucky’s voice brings him out his thoughts, “ _because I don’t know when Natasha’s next night off is, uh, maybe you and I could have lunch? O-Or something? W-We haven’t really actually caught up._ ” Bucky lowers his voice, “ _And I l-liked seeing you today._ ”

“I liked it too, Buck,” Steve says softly. His hands are sweating and he can’t seem to shake the blush from his cheeks. “How about Friday?” Steve blurts out. He really should ask Peggy first but he pushes that thought aside. “We could eat at the diner we saw each other at that day. The L&L. It’s in Manhattan, if that’s okay.”

“ _Yeah, I don’t mind,_ ” Bucky replies. “ _Really anywhere is fine_. _I just want to be with you_.”

Steve’s eyes flutter and he lets out a breathy laugh before he catches himself. Friends, they were friends, and nothing more. He clears his throat, “Bucky,” it sounds like a warning. “We… I mean you shouldn’t,” he is more rigid than a corpse, “say things like that.”

“ _Sorry_ ,” Bucky replies nervously, “ _I just meant_ —”

“I know,” Steve interrupts and then softly, “I know what you meant.”

Silence stretches between them and Steve thinks he can hear the same voices on Bucky’s side. Bucky shushes whoever is talking and Steve hears a noise like the phone being moved from where it initially was. Finally, Bucky returns and they talk for what seems like hours. Steve isn’t even sure what they discuss, but the next time he looks at the clock it’s 3 in the morning. His eyelids feel like sandpaper and he’s leaning against the desk; Bucky sounds like he’s barely awake.

 “ _Life is too short to not do anything_ ,” Bucky murmurs.

Steve blinks in confusion, “What?”

Bucky chuckles, “ _It’s something someone said to me today. It made me think of you._ ”

Steve rubs his face, stifling a yawn. “Why?” he asks.

“ _I don’t know. Y-You called me, didn’t you?_ ” Bucky says and Steve imagines him shrugging. “ _You did something. It’s more than I’ve done_.” Bucky sighs heavily. “ _Do you think I should do something?_ ”

“Like what?” Steve wonders.

“ _I don’t know._ ”

“Well, if you really want to do something.” Steve closes his eyes. “You should do it.”

“ _…Okay_.”

After that, he and Bucky finally hang up. Steve works in the morning and Bucky tells him he has a job interview somewhere—he doesn’t say where. Steve heads upstairs, careful to not make noise. He is proud of himself for shutting Bucky down earlier; it’s making up for his earlier mistake. Bucky has to know they can only be friends.  

Life is too short for anything else.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a question. Would you prefer the flashback chapters to be linear, so starting from when Steve arrives in France in May 1944 to when Bucky is in Russia with Natasha missing his arm in May 1945. Or, should it remain in the non-linear way that it is now (as Chapter 4 takes place in May 1945 and Chapter 6 will be in December 1944). Would that be easier to follow/read? Please give me some feedback. I will move the chapters around if need be when it's finished so it doesn't confuse any of you. 
> 
> Leave a comment telling me what you thought :) Next Chapter (hopefully): June 6th.


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